Harlan Ellison (1934 – 2018).
A contentious figure, certainly, but very much a talented one, whose writing has loomed large in my life for many, many years. There’s a whole lot one could say about him, good and ill, and no matter your opinion on him, I’m sure it’s entirely justified. Still, it’s going to be weird thinking he’s no longer out there, being angry about something, pissing somebody off, or writing something amazing, or doing all three at once.
So long, Harlan.
Agreed. I was browsing through the Silver Age long boxes at a Mid-Ohio-Con in the late 80’s when this congenial chap in a custom made leather Blackhawks jacket starting reminiscing about how his mother tossed out all the comics from his childhood. We chatted for ten minutes about our favorite books. I moved on and he moved on. Turns out he was Harlan Ellison. Go figure.
I thought it was pretty funnny when Wolfman brought back Ellison’s Silver Fog for a Titans story a few years later.
Paul Chadwick did a pretty good Concrete story about his characters visiting the home of a thinly disguised version of Ellison.
To me, Ellison will always be the guy who arranged for William Shatner to be hit with a pie.
Whether that makes him a villain or a hero is up to you.