Here's why there wasn't more posting Friday. I spent most of yesterday in a hospital emergency room. I've been to this building so many times that at dinner time, as I was going through the line in the cafeteria there to purchase dinner, the cashier actually said to me, "You get the employee discount, don't you?"

My mother, who's the reason I keep going to these places, is home and doing okay now. But it was a rough day for both of us — her, more than me, obviously. But it was rough for me, too. The only good thing I can say for the experience is that when you hang around a hospital emergency ward, you pick up a lot of "slice of life" anecdotes. I told one here and I have a couple of new ones.

We were waiting for my mother to be admitted and I believe we were the next to be called. Suddenly, elsewhere in the waiting room, a stout black woman passed out, right on the floor. A security guard called inside and an intern came running out with a gurney, and she was quickly wheeled in for treatment, ahead of us and everyone else. I instantly got two impressions. One was that she had faked the collapse on the floor in order to get in right away. It was not a display of Lee Strasberg sensitivity; more like Roger Corman and one of those prison pictures shot in the Phillipines. That level of acting. The other impression was that the intern knew she was faking but since he couldn't prove it, he had to operate on the assumption that it was legit.

An hour or so later, I was sitting in front of the cubicle wherein my mother was being treated, and the stout black lady walked past me, on her way to the toilet to try and fill a specimen bottle. As she passed, I said, "Nice performance out there," and she didn't even break stride. She just said, "Hey, you do what you have to in this world," and kept on going. Somehow, I don't think she had any trouble filling that bottle.

In the meantime, there was a female security guard more-or-less watching the cubicle next to where we were, and I got into a conversation with her. The patient within was a semi-coherent woman who'd been brought in by the police, complaining of "brain injuries." Her boy friend, she mumbled, had inflicted them. He had been beating her and hitting her for years now, and this was not the first time she'd been in this emergency ward due to his handiwork.

So why did they need to have a security guard watching her in there? Was someone afraid "the boy friend" would get in and resume smacking her around in a hospital emergency room? No, the guard explained. It was to keep her from sneaking out of the ward and hurrying back to Mr. Wonderful. This, the guard said, is not uncommon: "They suddenly realize someone is talking about going and arresting the S.O.B. and they either get worried about losing him or afraid that he's going to get mad at them and make their lives even more miserable." The lady in question had done that every time she'd been in before. There was also the worry that she would do something suicidal there…which wouldn't have been all that different from going back to her beau.

As usual for these places, I was impressed with the skill and efficiency of most of the doctors and nurses, less so with the paper shufflers and administrative folks. It's almost like some hospitals feel the need to balance the competence of their medical personnel with people who can't do much more than repeat routing procedures they've been taught.

And as usual, I was unimpressed with the food in the cafeteria. I had a piece of poached salmon and a scoop of macaroni and cheese…and I think I know which was which, but it took a bit of study. Oh — and later, I was in a roomful of vending machines and I attempted to purchase a bag of Baked Lays from one of those devices where you put in your money, punch the code number and the product drops into the slot at the bottom…only, my Baked Lays didn't drop properly. The bag got wedged on the bottom row of products and though I tried to jiggle the machine, I couldn't get it to drop the rest of the way into the dispensing slot. I tried and tried…and then a man in surgeon's garb (green scrubs) came up behind me and said, "Let me give it a try," and he banged the door a few times. Sure enough, around the fifth bang, the chips dropped into the chute where I could get them.

I thanked him and said, "For a minute there, I thought you were going to have to perform a Caesarian."

He said, "If only deliveries were all that easy."

This comes under the category of "I'm surprised it took this long for this to happen." Authorities arrested two men at the Comic-Con International for selling bootleg DVDs of copyrighted motion pictures. It's not news to anyone who's set foot in a comic convention the last dozen years but there's a thriving market of folks duping movies and old TV shows on DVD and videotape. Assuming they were doing what the charge says they were doing, I don't have a lot of sympathy for the men hauled off to the pokey. It's about time something was done about all that bootlegging.

If you stayed at a hotel to attend the Comic-Con International (or just stayed anywhere in San Diego) since 1990, you were probably swindled out of a couple of bucks. Here are the sordid details.

I seem to need to expand on or maybe clarify my remarks on the Eisner Awards in San Diego. What I said is apparently being taken by some as much more negative than I'd intended. Let me try it this way…

I am physically, emotionally and mentally unable to sit in an auditorium for three hours, clapping every few seconds for nominees, presenters and award recipients. You couldn't keep me there for three hours if the awards were doled out by nude Playboy models and they periodically ran through the house throwing Krugerrands to the audience. I didn't know of many of the nominees but even if I did, I couldn't applaud for or even remain in a chair that long to watch people I loved being honored. When I've been nominated for an Eisner, I sometimes don't attend. (First time I won one, I didn't find out until weeks later when I read it in some fanzine.) When called upon to present one, I remain in my seat only as long as necessary to fulfill my obligation. Then I either depart or watch with frequent intermissions, ducking out to the lobby for occasional stretches.

This is not really a criticism of the Eisners…more a matter of the way I find all award shows. I didn't go to the Emmy ceremony the last few times I was nominated, either.

I don't know how many folks feel the way I do. As I said, a lot of people this year seemed to like the Eisner ceremony, all 180+ minutes of it. Maybe there wouldn't be so many empty seats if they could find a way to shave an hour off the running time: Find a way to get the presenters and winners to the stage faster, limit acceptance speeches, don't create a rhythm where the audience feels expected to applaud every nominee in every category, etc. Or maybe that would spoil it for those who enjoy the ritual and the speeches and even clapping for the comic book shops that are up for Retailer of the Year or whatever that trophy's called. I missed it but everyone said the presentation of the first Bill Finger Award, especially Arnold Drake's acceptance speech, was a memorable highlight. Maybe some felt that made it worth sitting there for three hours, banging their palms together.

I only know I can't sit through any awards show where I can't pick up my TiVo remote and fast-forward through whole segments. I love Jackie Estrada, who administers and presents the Eisners, and I mean no criticism of her and the tireless job she does. Heck, I'll even throw my whole-hearted support behind those awards. Just so long as I don't have to sit through them.

If you read the liberal bloggers, the indictment of Karl Rove is just about a done deal. The guy's in big trouble and is soon to be frog-marched (whatever that is) into custody.

If you read the conservative bloggers, the phony scandal has already fallen apart. There's no chance of Rove even getting a slap on the wrist, let alone an indictment.

From what I can tell, most of the above conclusions have come from rumors and leaks of dubious authenticity. Very little of it has come from the Special Counsel's office. You also have a lot of lawyers and laymen reading the various statutes, declaring they do or do not apply, and saying theirs is the only possible interpretation. And folks who are eager for Rove to be nailed or exonerated are seizing on damn near anything that supports their wish and insisting it's inarguable fact.

I have no idea what's going to happen here except that one side is going to be mostly wrong and the other is going to be mostly right. And even the folks who are going to be mostly right will have gotten to the right conclusion based on largely-bogus evidence. We don't know nearly as much about this case as we think we do.

Debuting tonight on PBS, on the American Masters series is Bob Newhart: Unbuttoned, which is said to be a good look at the great comedian and especially his early standup work.

Tom Orzechowski reports on the Bob Fujitani spotlight panel at the Comic-Con International.

Not that this is the most important measure of what it's costing us — human lives are — but what's the price tag in dollars of the Iraq War going to be? Here's an answer.

Years ago, I had a friend named George Caragonne. So did a lot of people.

George was a big guy — he made me look anorexic — with incredible energy and passion. The phrase "nothing in moderation" was not inapplicable. If he liked you, and he liked most people, there was nothing he wouldn't do for you. In fact, George's friendship could be embarrassing because it was so in-your-face enthusiastic. The flip side of that was, of course, that when he hated, he hated hard.

George wanted nothing more in the world than to be important in the comic book industry and, for a brief shining moment, he sort of made it. But before that moment, he struggled. He wrote a few things for Marvel, like Masters of the Universe and Thundercats. He did some animation work for the G.I. Joe series and a couple others. He tried and failed in a few different ways to launch his own publishing company…

And then something clicked.

Maybe it was dumb luck. Maybe it was skill and strategy. Somehow, George managed to interest the people who published Penthouse Magazine in a line of adult comic books produced on a handsome budget. Suddenly, he could put some of his ideas — and he had a lot of them — into print. Suddenly, he had a staff and an office and an expense account, and he could hire his friends, as well as artists and writers he'd long admired. They put out Penthouse Comics, Penthouse Men's Adventure Comix and Omni Comix.

At the time they were published, I wasn't sure what to make of them. And I haven't been able to look back at them since because they remind me of George.

Some people and some successes have a way of destroying each other. Once a man who'd refused to smoke, drink, use drugs or engage in premarital sex, he was suddenly doing all of those and in excess…especially the drugs. George had a "friend" (notice the quotes) who could get cocaine. They were both heavy users and they had an arrangement: The "friend" got the coke for both of them and George paid for it. George also began spending money foolishly and not in small amounts. He loved buying guns and expensive toys. He showered friends with extravagant gifts. He went wildly overbudget on his magazines and on some new, non-Penthouse projects.

More and more, everything in his life inverted, even his waking hours. He'd work all night in the Penthouse offices, then go home and crash during the day.

Friends tried to rein him in but it was like trying to recall a surface-to-air missile. When you told him he was out of control, it made him frantic and he'd veer even more wildly off-course. And then there were the money problems. As big as his salary was, it wasn't big enough for the way he was living. There were rumors of financial improprieties…of George "borrowing" from his employers without their knowledge or consent. One night, he arrived at work and discovered he'd been locked out pending a full audit on his books. That was on a Friday, I recall.

Saturday night and Sunday, a number of us spent time on the phone with him, urging him to get professional treatment. There was no reasoning with the guy. I spent hours. Everyone spent hours but to no good result.

George Caragonne disappeared for a few days. Then, the following Thursday, he took himself to the Marriott Marquis hotel in New York. He went up to a bellhop and asked, "Is it true this is the tallest hotel in Times Square?" The bellhop said it was. George then took an elevator to the top floor where an indoor atrium provides a stunning view of the lobby, 45 stories below. He put on a Walkman containing a cassette of his favorite music — themes from James Bond films. We'll never know just which theme was playing when he jumped.

That was ten years ago today.

On the way down, his 400+ pound body caromed off ledges and decorations, then it landed in a buffet spread. Miraculously, no one else was killed but many people, including some children, suffered severe emotional traumas and required years of treatment, all because of what they witnessed. I believe human beings have a right to do away with themselves, but not when they're insane and certainly not the way George did it.

For years after, my sadness at what became of my pal George was drowned out by anger at what he did to total strangers and even to his close associates. One of his co-workers — the one George wanted to blame for the missing money — had to go identify the body. Years later, that associate also took his own life, though in a quieter, neater manner.

I still miss the old George Caragonne…or, at least, I'd like to. But even today, one full decade after, the memory of what he became is still making that difficult.

I really like going to Costco. Rumor has it they will soon erect one about a mile from me, which will be great. But until they do, I have no hesitation about visiting any of three that are 6-8 miles away. I find them friendly and clean and usually well-stocked, and I love all the free samples of food, which I have come to refer to as Costco Dim Sum.

I liked Costco even before I learned how well they treat their employees. Some folks seem to think that for "competitive reasons," you have to pay rock bottom wages and impose a plantation worker mentality on your work force. Not so, as Costco proves. This article tells how well their approach is succeeding.

Tom Spurgeon reports on the Eisner Awards, which were handed out last Friday night at the Comic-Con International. I was going to say his commentary was more entertaining than the awards themselves, but…well, fill in your own joke about watching paint dry or watching flies die. Tom's report is very funny, as you'll see for yourself.

Augie DeBlieck reports on the con. Here's part zero, here's part one, here's part two and here's part three.

Greg Hatcher reports on the "Working With Will Eisner" panel…

…while Brian J. Apodaca reports on the Golden/Silver Age Panel.

You'll note that I'm not linking to any reporter whose con coverage didn't mention my panels. There are certain benchmarks one can use to determine if a writer is worthy of reading, and that's one of them.

Here's a pretty good article explaining the basics of the Plame/Rove/Whoever scandal.

Hiking back and forth between my hotel and the convention center in San Diego, I had to deal with…well, I'm not sure what you'd call them. They were folks assigned to direct traffic (car and foot) but they weren't police officers by any means. They reminded me of hall monitors back in elementary school: Fellow students who, having been designated to patrol the halls or prevent littering, suddenly turned into a cross between Judge Dredd and Barney Fife. It's like a little power goes to some heads and there isn't a lot else happening up there, so they bark orders and yell at people, and there are times when it seems like something more is going on than an honest attempt to do one's job. Some sort of desperate, deep-seated need to boss others around is bubbling to the surface.

Not all the "officials" around the convention center fell into that classification, and I observed one being enormously helpful to a bewildered family that couldn't fathom how on Earth to get back to their hotel. But I also encountered at least two of the Dredd/Fife variety, both of whom seemed not only unnecessarily rude but also largely incompetent. By that, I mean they were so busy trying to sound authoritative that they couldn't pay sufficient attention to where the cars were, where they were trying to go, what the traffic lights were indicating, etc. They were telling people to walk at the wrong time and then scolding them when they did or didn't. I don't know what it is about having A Little Power other than that some people, I guess, often feel like they have none…so when they do, they go a little berserk with it.

On the way back from San Diego, we made a wrong turn and wound up at a checkpoint on the way to Camp Pendleton. There was a young Marine on duty there who, at first, seemed to be waving at us to ignore a stop sign and drive past him. Then, once we did, he yelled at us to stop and started hollering at us the way you'd lecture a nine-year-old: "Didn't you see that sign? What do you think that sign means?" The immediate goal did not seem to be to protect the security of Camp Pendleton or even to help some errant motorists find their way back to the freeway. He seemed to just care about us acknowledging that he had the right to yell at us and to make us apologize to him. We did, he pointed out the route back to the proper road, and we were off. I'm all for following rules and obeying signs but this wasn't about that…and I couldn't help but feel that he waved for us to ignore that stop sign just so he could yell at us for ignoring that stop sign.

I'm home. Rode back with my chum Paul Dini and his fiancée, the lovely and mystifying Misty Lee. We stopped at a place in Oceanside that has world class fish-and-chips (info here), then took the short cut back from San Diego. For the last few years, a well-kept secret among California motorists has been the 73 freeway, which more or less links Long Beach and San Juan Capistrano in a straight line. If one is going from San Diego to Los Angeles (or vice-versa or even some shorter stretches involving the 405 and the 5), this can shave 20-30 minutes off one's commute. It's less crowded, it's more scenic and it allows you to bypass Irvine and the John Wayne Airport and the fork where the 5 and 405 join up directly. These are all places that can get very crowded. The only downside is that it's a toll road that, depending on the time of day, will run you three or four bucks.

And before some of you write me to complain that I should have told you this before you spent extra hours going to and/or from the convention: Sorry. I didn't know about it 'til Sergio showed me on the way down.

Today at the con, I did three panels that I enjoyed immensely. Yes, I know I've said that about all my panels but, hey, I enjoyed all my panels immensely. That's just how it is.

The con was fast and fun, and I heard others today mutter that it seemed to fly by at record speed. Some of that is due to the way familiar things always seem to take less time than unfamiliar ones. Going to some location always seems to take more time than coming back, since on the way back, you're more familiar with the terrain and where you're going. Comic-Con International, though wonderful in many ways, has a tendency to look and feel the same each year. The crowds all look the same and the exhibit hall doesn't vary much. I didn't need to consult the map to find certain exhibitors. I just went to where they were last year…and maybe the year before and the year before.

What was different for me was the mood, which seemed even more divorced from comic books than ever before. It's like what's in the comic book doesn't matter any more. It's what's in the movie that counts. And if it never becomes a movie…well then, the comic book really doesn't matter. I'll try to write more about this in the coming days.

For now, it's nice to be home. It was also nice to see so many of you there. Oh — and I want to thank several folks who said, "I don't do PayPal" and slipped me cash donations for this site. That included one gent who thrust an envelope at me, told me it was for this weblog, and then disappeared before I could open it and find two hundred bucks. My appreciation…and now I have to go unpack.