Harlan Ellison is dead. SF writer, talented as hell. Not the shy retiring type — and nobody's candidate for Mr. Niceguy. (I pissed him off once. Evidently, it's a very big club.) He had a mouth, he had a typewriter, he used both to scream. The blank pages start now.
Making some sort of point, Harlan Ellison published his home phone number in one of his anthologies. A consortium of phone phreaks at my Egghead Institute decided to call him — on New Year's Eve, yet. They made me the phall guy to actually pick up the phone and talk to him. There was some sort of party going on in the background. He was not amused.
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