Our Pal, Harlan Ellison

So. . .

The last kids leave, and I am filled with an overwhelming School’s Out mentality of “let’s get the fuck out of here.” But some counteracting instinct insisted I quickly check my e-mail first. 

Now I’m not going to self righteously try to minimize my social media addiction, but I can fight it when I need to, and a little voice did try to say “forget it! There can’t be anything important! You can check later. You gotta get to Dave’s birthday party and you’re running a bit late already!” And yet, I had to see. Just a few seconds. There was a message from “the Harlan Ellison Book Preservation Project”, which again, a voice prompted me to ignore, but again I felt worth looking at. And this is what I saw:

“I'm sure a lot of you have seen the news.

If not, I apologize for breaking it this way.”

Oh no. A cold feeling crept over me.  My hands trembled over the cursor keys. I looked away. Maybe if I didn't finish reading, maybe it wouldn't be true. Maybe I could rewind the clock, and it wouldn't have to be true, not yet. I could live just a few more minutes in a world where it hadn't happened yet. Maybe if I didn't read the news, it could be something else.

But we all know, it doesn't work that way, does it folks? I read on, and learned for sure what I already knew.

Harlan Ellison – dear ol’ “Unca Harlan” - was gone.

It had to happen. We all go one day. But did it have to be that day? Then again, I would have asked the same whatever day it had been. It happened at last: I was going to have to face a world without Harlan Ellison in it.

Now understand one thing: to hardcore fans of Ellison – his “Flying Blue Monkey Squadron”, whose membership I hope was open – he was not just a writer we admired. For those who really ensconced themselves in his work, it was impossible not to think of him as a close friend or even relative. To us he wasn’t “Ellison”, but “Unca Harlan”, a term of endearment he himself came up with and encouraged. He signed off all his messages as “yer pal, Harlan”.  For make no mistake people: for all his reputation as a grump, to us, his really clingy fans, he could not have been more warm, friendly, kind or supportive.  If he occasionally kicked us in the ass, it was only when we deserved it – Unca Harlan expected only the best from people and frequently brought it out of them. Glance even casually at his autobiographical writings, and marvel at how many of his life’s multitudinous dramatis personae he considered friends. While everyone else remarked on his notorious crabbiness, I noticed  how quick to befriend he seemed to be and how much he valued people. I think he appreciated how deeply he was loved, and was quick to reciprocate. Maybe not to faceless masses of fans, but to anyone who got to know him on a human level.

Let’s go back in time a little bit. . .

I first encountered Ellison on the Prisoners of Gravity Show, circa, oh I dunno, 1991 or in that neighbourhood. Unlike so many of the talking heads they brought on, this guy was feisty, animated, outspoken, direct and to the point. He had no patience for nonsense, and seemed to treat writing like hands-on work. I had to read him. . .

The fiction didn’t disappoint. It was every bit as lively and engaging. One day, on a different Prisoners of Gravity episode, he was asked to give advice to young writers in the crowd. He turned straight to the camera and said “the trick to being a writer is to stay a writer!” The advice was good, it was practical, and he said it straight to you. None of the other guests did that. They were talking heads. Some were boring and some were interesting, but they were talking heads. Harlan leapt out of the screen and spoke to you. That was the magic of Harlan Ellison: he made you feel he was addressing you directly. Personally. So the reader-writer relationship was personal. And so is the loss.

Unca Harlan did in fact address me personally, three times, on his message board. The first was when I inquired whether one of is broadcasts would be available in Ontario. His response (and I have not put it in  all caps) was:

“ONTARIO IS NOT SIBERIA!”, followed by a harangue about hiding crystal radios under one’s bed.

The Second time was as part of a larger discussion in which I praised the Dark Knight for being “low tech”. His response was:

“LOW TECH MY ASS!” followed by something about the impossibility of school buses lining up so perfectly. (And then an apology for misreading one of my sentences).

The third time was just a bit of practical advice for making pitches to people – he advised addressing people formally and then asking if they could be addressed informally.

Brief exchanges all, but each one full of his trademark rhetorical virtuosity and personalized bombast. Mini Ellisonian masterpieces carved out of the ether, just for me. I wish I’d copied and pasted them.

That’s the kind of guy he was – he couldn’t say good morning without entertaining someone.

If I concentrated so far entirely on my personal reaction to the Man rather than His Work, it’s only because that’s all I’m qualified to speak on. Smarter people than me will have plenty to say about his work, his thousands of stories and essays and articles, his genius for words, his blinding imagination, his deep, underappreciated humanity. All I can talk about with any authority is what it all meant to me, and why his loss cuts so deeply. He was the crazy uncle whose stories you couldn't get enough of. We all crowded outside his door, waiting for another one, and he was only too pleased to oblige, churning them out with gusto, a verve all his own. You couldn't separate a man from his art. Who would want to? 

To be sure, he wasn’t a flawless human being; doubtless there will be no shortage of pundits and trolls who will be quick to remind you of his shortcomings. I make no excuses for him, but maintain the good far outweighed the bad, that there isn’t one of us who doesn’t have failings and shortcomings, and if were solely judged on them, there would be nothing to celebrate in all of humanity.

In recent years, I slowed my consumption of Harlan Ellison. Not for lack of material – you can never run out. But for the same reason I slowed my consumption of Bradbury. They both inspired me to work hard and follow my dreams. I feel as if I’ve failed. Ellison taught me too well to allow for any excuses, so reading him forces me to face up to that failure. He also wouldn’t allow for any self-pity, so I won’t refer to it any more. Though, perhaps it’s not too late for dreams. . .

I can hardly fathom a world without Harlan Ellison in it. It’s an altogether duller, stupider place. But how incredibly better the world has been for having had him in it. How much deeper my life has been, for having encountered him. So, while I’m heart-broken that he’s gone, I cannot be but thrilled that he lived. What better thing can one say of anyone?

So long Unca Harlan: you were the best!