Curtains?

Haranguing Harlan paints a little rouge on his cheeks:

Fans of fantastic fiction -- or just some of the finest damn writing to be put on paper -- take heed: If you've ever wanted to talk to Harlan Ellison, this weekend's MadCon 2010 is your last chance.

"The truth of what's going on here is that I'm dying," says Ellison, by phone. "I'm like the Wicked Witch of the West -- I'm melting. I began to sense it back in January. By that time, I had agreed to do the convention. And I said, I can make it. I can make it.'"

You always have been an attention whore, Ellison. But you're a lovable old whore. To wit:

"This is gonna be the biggest fucking science-fiction convention ever," Ellison says, "because no con has ever had a guest of honor drop dead while performing for the goddamn audience. The only comparison is the death of Patrick Troughton, at a Doctor Who convention. And I don't think he was even onstage.

"An old dog senses when it's his time -- dogs have that capacity; nobody doubts that. Nobody. But everybody doubts when you say, 'I'm dying.' They think you're being a Victorian actress."

That's because you can do melodrama to put a Vaudevillian to shame, Ellison. Still, I hope you're wrong and live another 20 years. Yes, you're an irascible asshole, but so am I. You'd be missed.

(N.B. - I'll feel really bad if the old bastard is pushing up daisies in a few weeks... On second thought, no I won't. Because he'll be right. Again.)