Staring at the hole in the ground which used to be NYC's Statler Hilton Hotel, home to my first comic book convention in 1970, has me remembering the time I heckled publisher Jim Warren (and what he shouted back), the original art I bought for a buck a page, why the National Lampoon's Michael O'Donoghue doused me with a pitcher of ice water, the reason I was locked in a dealers room overnight, the early morning I was stopped by two NYC police officers while wandering Penn Station in a Mister Miracle mask, and much more.