Holding court a few yards away, Soupy Sales is by far the biggest sweetheart in the joint. The infamous kid-show comic is 75, and his head is a thicket of gray Brillo. In his tan windbreaker and white action slacks, he looks like he just came in off the back nine. The Soupy business is a brisk one, and besides autographs, he's selling copies of his halcyon memoir Soupy Sez! My Life and Zany Times. Although he needs a cane to get around these days, Soupy's still lightning with a one-liner. When asked if he's had any strange requests today, he says: "Some people have requested that I get out of the business."
A couple of tables down, an intriguing woman with long gray hair pulled into a bun sits waiting for some action. The nameplate in front of her reads: Maila Nurmi--"Vampira." Long before the cleavage-baring Elvira, Vampira was the late-night TV horror hostess. And looking at the slinky gothic cheesecake photos from her '50s heyday, it's easy to see why. Nurmi says she doesn't venture out of her house much anymore. "I don't have a telephone, and I only come out for this." But recently her rent went up. "That's why I'm out here meeting the common man." There aren't a lot of common men around right now, though, so I hand her $25 and pick out a photo. When she glances at the still I've chosen, she brightens. "I like that one, you know why? Because my waist was so small and my boobs look like Dolly Parton's. My waist in that photo was 17 inches! It made the Guinness Book of World Records."
"WE'RE ALL NUTS IN OUR OWN WAY."
After a few hours on the convention floor, the surreal quickly melts into the routine. Heading toward the exit, I pass by presidential "other woman" Gennifer Flowers displaying her Penthouse cover. But even outside, there's no escape. As I sit down on a bench next to two men in their late 60s, I catch Ken Osmond--Leave It to Beaver's Eddie Haskell--dragging on a cigarette and eyeballing a young blond as if she were June Cleaver. Then I turn to the two men next to me and introduce myself.
At first glance, Charles and Ron look like ordinary grandfather types. But make no mistake, these guys are serious addicts. Charles is a shy, semiretired CPA from Ohio. Ron is a more boisterous ex-schoolteacher from Southern California. We start talking about the monkey on their backs when Charles whips out an old-fashioned autograph book--the kind that actually says "Autographs" on the cover. In the upper right-hand corner is the number 602. This is Charles' 602nd book full of autographs.
Charles says he has a little more than 26,000 signatures. "I've been collecting for 59 years," he says bashfully. "I have Cy Young, Eleanor Roosevelt, you name it. Some people think it's silly..." Then Ron breaks in: "Ahh, we're all nuts in our own way." Charles grins and continues. "Let's say I have 26,000 autographs. If you take away 16,000 as being worthless nobodies, I have 10,000 left. Now, let's say they're worth $10 apiece..." Charles trails off, calculating the fortune in his head. "I won't go to screenings and premieres to get autographs... they're not civilized. But this," he says, waving his hand toward the hotel, "this is civilized."
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