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Sorry Tim. I've never heard from anyone else regarding that. God knows, since I worked with Eric from the early days of Scarlet Street, I never missed a dime. Sounds like Eric's handed the bookkeeping over to someone else. Who knows?

Be that as it may, I've been given permission to post the following information, so let's please understand what's going on and not have any nonsensical speculation.

Mike Copner has a brain tumor. He told me so himself a few years ago. He is also an epileptic and subject to seizures. Yes Tom, Mike dabbled in the drug scene, as did I and many others of our acquaintance and while it didn't help any, it's not the reason for his mind snapping. A few years back, Mike was the victim of a mugging wherein he had his skull cracked and for some reason refused medical attention. That didn't help things either.

For some time Eric Caidin had given Mike a place to live when he couldn't find any place else. As his delusions deepened, he began to think Eric was recording his personal conversations etc., basically - he thought "they" were out to get him. Buddy Barnett saw him a few weeks ago and found him living in a seedy motel in Hollywood. He had no hair and was giving things to Buddy because "Buddy should have them." The bottom line is, the man has been slowly sinking into dementia but nothing was done about it. No one had any idea he might become violent, but apparently that's exactly what happened.

Eric told Buddy that he feels sorry for Mike, and if the victim of the attack is willing to cut the guy some slack, I would think the rest of us could. Mike will no doubt be institutionalized at this point, as he's not capable of caring for himself and also, no one knows when he may or may not snap again.

This is a very sad and tragic epilogue to a life. Even though this IS the internet and Tom Weaver is everyone's hero, can we try not to be too nasty with the black humor? These are men many of us know personally, and it's hard enough to swallow the reality without having to slosh around the bad puns.

That said, Caidin was heard to say that the situation reminded him of Larry Talbot turning into a wolf. It was that bizarre. But Mirek, sadly, I don't think time is gonna heal Mike's wounds. I think he's irrepairable at this point.

Mike always has such a sweet and gentle smile. This is all too much.

You oughta try a different branch of monster fandom, then. Go east, young man, go east!

Don't kid yourself Tom. You know as well as I do that it's no different back East then it is out here. There are good guys and bad guys everywhere and plenty of jealousies to go around and fill fandom to the brim.

As for me, I'm perfectly fine. Really I am.

Oh, I don't know. I suspect the jury's still out on that one there ol' Mirek. (I should talk.) I do know what you mean though. Really, I do. Perhaps it's the climate. Back East, if you're on the street, you stand a damned good chance of freezing to death come winter so Mom's basement (or ground floor) works just grand. In Sunny Southern California, the climate, being more temperate, allows the fan boy access to the streets and the full ability to lose everything while still being fairly comfortable weather-wise.

That aside, yes. I do think there's a more seedy miasma over some folks in LA. This is the place people come to from the world over, hoping to make their mark in the film business that they love. And when they fail, as 99% of them do, they find themselves with nothing left but their love of an industry they couldn't break into. You'll find a crowd of these folks waiting tables or working in bookshops, but the others never even get that far. Many, MANY of the street people in LA are failed actors, writers, directors, you-name-it... and all of these are fans. They wander the streets hungry and lonely and many take their own lives, or are found in doorways after a chilly night. It's not a nice town. The Boulevard of Broken Dreams has become a hackneyed acrylic-on-velvet, neon-lit joke at this point, but the sentiment is as real as it gets. Like a venus fly-trap, the fragrance of show business intoxicates and kills, all in the blink of an eye.