What? Another Convention?

He kept asking and asking me, "What's your favorite color?" I tried to ignore him but he was pretty persistent and, besides, his red-webbed face was right in front of me.

I muttered some answer. "Uh...white," I said.

"White is not a color," replied Spider-Man, indignantly. "I like red."

I just smiled because I really didn't know what else to do. So sue me: I like white. I don't care if it isn't a color, it looks great with a tan and nice on my living room ceiling. And, since they make white Crayolas, I say it is a color, so there. And, besides, why was I even talking to this person in the silly costume? If he's so smart, how come he's doing this for a living? Why was I taking Spider-Man so seriously?

I looked around: There was Superman and Wolverine and Casper the Friendly Ghost and Mr. T...Mr. T seemed to be the least realistic of all of them. And, hey, there's Vampirella...and over here, behind my table, one real-life B-Girl! What a place. Yes, you guessed it: I'm at a comic book convention.

We're all here in Chicago at the Chicago Comic-Con, my reason to be here...I wanted to see how Chicago celebrates the Fourth of July, oh, and I needed to sell the second printing of my book Invasion of the B-Girls which probably is the main reason I'm here.

Conventions...they're weird. Where else would you find Superman eating a hot dog or Spider-Man hanging out with Mr. T? I've been to a lot of conventions in my time and I have acted pretty silly at some.

One of the more memorable cons for me occurred last September in Los Angeles at the A.B.A. (American Booksellers Association) convention; that's where I got real stupid.

At every convention, whether it's a comic convention or a Star Trek gathering, there is a section where celebrities hawk and sign their latest project or promote their newest show and it was at one of these areas at the A.B.A. that I behaved...uh...inappropriately. The convention took up three huge rooms at the Anaheim Convention Center, which roughly could fit three football fields. I was tired of walking around and hearing, every few feet, "This book is the most remarkable piece of literature out about our time." At first, I would stop in awe to see what was this most glorious piece of literature and it always turned out to be something like, "A Pictorial History of Cotton Swabs" or perhaps "McDonalds' History of the McDLT." Somehow, none of them struck me as a "remarkable piece of literature" or sent me swooning to the corner bookstore. I wandered through a section entirely devoted to an orange cat, "Garfield" and stood in amazement at all the people lining up to meet his creator, Jim Davis. I not only know Jim but have done cartoon voices for the "Garfield and Friends" Saturday morning show. (My favorite role was in a cartoon where all the items in Garfield's refrigerator came to life and started chasing him. I played a Covered Dish...a welcome change from all the movie roles I've had playing an uncovered dish, if you know what I mean.) Anyway, I just couldn't see myself lining up for him; if Garfield himself had been there, that would have been a whole different matter.

All of a sudden, I heard a scream and everyone looked around and started running towards the back of the building where apparently a woman had fainted. She had actually seen, in person, romance king "Fabio" takeoff his shirt! Overcome by the sight of his bulging muscles, she promptly fainted.

It was then that I spotted "Him." At first, it was just a glimpse of his corduroy pants...but I was sure it was him. My pulse pounded...I started to sweat, hurriedly trying to catch up to a disheveled man walking away from me. He turned down an aisle and – oh, my God! It was him! I froze. Should I run after him, throwing myself at his feet, screaming, "I'm your number one fan" or should I just let him wander on, unnoticed?

"I'm your number one fan," I screamed, flinging myself down the aisle as book buyers watched. Out of breath, I finally reached my idol and sputtered, "Mr. O'Rourke, I'm your number one fan!" and he didn't say a word. (No, I wasn't chasing Fabio. Get real. I was chasing P.J. O'Rourke, author of Republican Party Reptile and my personal favorite, Holidays In Hell.) I was utterly speechless. I wanted to tell him how I too wanted to go to Beirut for a vacation or learn about camping with the Contras in South America. I wanted to tell him how much I enjoyed reading his articles in Rolling Stone or about how his stories inspired me into staying up all night, laughing about his adventure to Poland (where a small ad offered to exchange a two-bedroom apartment in WArsaw for a sleeping bag in New York). I wanted to say all those things but instead, I mumbled, "Would you sign me book?"

Some people ask me the silliest of questions and I try to answer them with and humor. Sometimes I'm successful and then there are those occasions that I find myself completely at a loss for words and later, I think of the witty reply, of course too late to be useful. Here's an example of some of the questions and the replies I wish I'd had at the time..."How do you like Madison, Wisconsin?" "Oh, it's fine if you're a cheese, I guess." "Why weren't you in 'Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-a-rama?'" "I was too busy filming my role in 'Macbeth.'" "What's Monique Gabrielle really like?" "I'll let you in on a little secret. There are several Monique Gabrielles. It's like Ronald McDonald. They have a whole bunch of these Monique Gabrielle suits and they pay different women to put them on and appear at conventions and in movies. One of the women who does it is eighty-one years old and a great grandmother. They're real good costumes." In 'My Tutor,' you starred opposite Matt Lattanzi and there was a scene where you took off your top in front of him. How did he like that?" "Oh, he wasn't there. The first time we did that scene, Matt ran screaming from the set and hid out in a Baptist Church. We had to bring a stunt double in for the scene. And even he had to wear special goggles and padding." "What are you doing later tonight, babe?" "Gee, I was going to go up to my room, read the Bible a little, then break out the Uzi and go out on the streets, shooting down gang members and guys with bad come-on lines. Why? What did you have in mind?"

I left the Anaheim Convention Center happy, knowing that I had actually gotten to watch P.J. O'Rourke lift a pen and scribble his name in my book and I wondered why they didn't have conventions in Fiji or Borneo...somewhere exotic, unlike downtown Anaheim. It would be great to be lying on a white, virgin beach, wearing a string bikini sipping a Margarita while talking to people about the subtle dramatic skills it takes to play a Valley Girl or a cheerleader. Unfortunately, conventions are never at beaches: No waves, no lifeguards with tight buns, not even any Margaritas...just a bad snack bar with hot dogs left over from the Nixon Administration.

And people. People everywhere...lots of them...and no sunshine, just those bad fluorescent lights and cement floors. I don't really enjoy being around a mass of strangers but, on the other hand, it's really nice to meet those of you who have followed my career or read my book. That part is neat and I'm so amazed how far some people travel, just to see me. I was in Baltimore doing a convention and I met a man from Australia who not only collected all my movies but flew to the U.S. in hopes of meeting me. I was thrilled. So, naturally when the Chicago Comic Con asked me to be a guest I jumped at the offer! Here's the chance, not only to fly to Chicago but also to meet some new friends and see some old ones, as well. So that's where I am...in Chicago, home of the three-time champion Bulls and the team I love the most (but probably will never see anywhere near a pennant), the Chicago Cubs.

By the time you read this, I'll be home in Hollywood...wondering why I flew 2,500 miles to have my picture taken with Mr. T..