To all the kind people who have responded to the Support Peter Beagle website. This is definitely me, and no avatar of Connor Cochran. I fully understand your anxiety – heaven knows, at this point I share it myself, on a never-ending and exhausting basis – but I can assure you in grateful honesty that your donations are going only toward legal costs (not fees), which mount up by the moment. Please accept my thanks, and feel free to contact me if you’re in any further doubt concerning the genuineness of this website. We’ll yet get through this mess together.
Acclaimed fantasy author Peter S. Beagle has filed a lawsuit against his former business manager Connor Cochran and Mr. Cochran’s associated businesses for fraud, defamation, elder abuse, and breach of contract, among other charges. Peter trusted Mr. Cochran – who systematically used that trust to appropriate Peter’s life’s work for himself and destroy Peter’s reputation for his own personal gain.
Peter recently had a complete neuropsychological evaluation done at Mr. Cochran’s insistence, which included more than a dozen tests of memory and cognitive function in addition to a clinical interview. The licensed clinical psychologist concluded that Peter’s verbal memory scores were excellent and that his IQ score was in the 91st percentile for his age group. Peter received a second opinion from another licensed doctor, this one a neurologist, who reached the same conclusion: Peter is fully competent. This information is available to the public, including a copy of the neurologist’s statement, through the complaint.
Meanwhile, Peter continues to write daily. Stories, novellas, and other works are on the way, and his recent obituary of Christopher Lee, which is replete with his personal memories and anecdotes over the past thirty years, was published in Vanity Fair in June.
Peter does not control his social media. Conversely, Mr. Cochran has an active voice online, which puts Peter at a bit of a disadvantage in the social media environment. Moving forward, Peter requests that The Last Unicorn Facebook fan page be used solely for appreciation of the book and movie and a place for all lovers of fantasy to connect, interact, and dream. The lawsuit need not be a concern of the fans, so we are asking for it to please be taken off the page.
Peter greatly appreciates the outpouring of love and support from his friends and fans worldwide.
The journey continues…
You can read Peter’s entire Complaint here.
Beloved author Peter S. Beagle (The Last Unicorn) returns with his long-anticipated new novel Summerlong – a beautifully bittersweet tale of passion, enchantment, and the nature of fate. One family will become forever entwined with a enigmatic young woman whose strangely-compelling charm seems to affect even the weather.
For more info, click here.
Balticon is pleased to announce the appearance of Peter S. Beagle at Balticon 50, May 27-30, 2016, in Baltimore, Maryland at the Rennaissance Baltimore Harborplace Hotel. Peter Beagle was the Special Guest at Balticon 40 and is returning as part of Balticon 50’s Bring ‘Em Back Project, along with 19 Guest of Honor Alumni.
For more details about Balticon’s 50th anniversary convention, go here.
Oh and yes it’s his birthday today, so let’s all Peter both many more birthdays and a quick and favorable resolution to his legal battles!
Some volunteers have collected a nice little pile of books written by Peter S. Beagle or edited by him. We also have a couple of collections in which he participated, and books for which he wrote the foreword. And do check this page again and again as we’ll be adding more books and other goodies over time,
Please note that these are signed books, all of them physically on hand, waiting to go into mailing envelope and be sent out by media mail within the United States. Unfortunately, media mail to anywhere outside the US doesn’t exist, and the alternatives would, in some cases, cost more than the book, so bear that in mind if you live outside the United States, and want any of these titles.
We’re asking for the original cover price of the book plus the cost of shipping. (The one exception is the “Folk Of The Air” title – these are a rare edition, hardback, so we’re asking $50 for each of these.) Of course, you can add whatever donation you want on top of the final cost of whatever you buy. All proceeds from the sale of these books go directly to Peter Beagle. There is no middleman.
To buy, please send the name of the title or titles you’d like, along with your address in the “instructions to seller” area on Paypal. Payments should be made by Paypal only, at email@example.com. And since this is a fundraiser, please click the “gift” or “Friends and Family” box on Paypal.
All orders will be processed and sent within 48 hours of receipt. And thank you so much, from Peter and from the many people who love him and his work, and who want to help.
QTY TITLE SIGNED BY PRICE
14 Mirror Kingdoms: The Best of Peter S. Beagle (Peter) 75.00 (Very limited run!)
3 Urban Fantasy Peter (editor) 15.95
3 Secret History of Fantasy Peter (editor) 15.95
1 Treasury Of the Fantastic Peter (foreword) 19.95
3 Sleight of Hand Peter 14.95
1 A Fine & Private Place Peter 14.95
10 The Line Between Peter 14.95
SHIPPING & HANDLING, VIA USPS MEDIA MAIL:
$5 s&h for one book. Add $1 for each additional book shipped.
Fans Against Fraud reports that The Last Unicorn film Tour investors have now filed a lawsuit against Connor Cochran and his associated companies, marking the second time that he has been sued recently for fraud, breach of duty, and more. If I were a betting man, I’d wager good odds that there will be more such lawsuits filed.
The site breaks down the details of the lawsuit by The Last Unicorn Tour investors this way:
* Connor Cochran used a shell corporation as a personal piggy bank. The funds were supposed to be scrupulously managed only for narrow purposes, but he helped himself to hundreds of thousands in his care.
* He kept no records of how the funds were used, and refused to give accounting. He drained them entirely until he can’t pay them back.
* He’s still exploiting the Last Unicorn movie (and Peter’s name and work) for his own enrichment, while everyone goes empty-handed.
They’re suing Cochran for $450,000, based on the original investment, not to mention punitive damages for fraud and all legal costs incurred by them. You can read the sordid details here in Sandbox-Complaint-for-Damages.
There has been no public acknowledgement of this lawsuit from Cochran. If only the investors had children that he could turn against them!
On a warm midsummer night in August of 2008, the Green Man is nearly empty.
It’s a fine evening for a pint, mind you, and the barkeep’s not short of customers. It’s a matter of location; no one seems to want to stay inside. The new moon is a patch of pale, straight as a precision cut against the horizon. Something about that distant line of pearl is drawing everyone out of doors, to wander, to settle. Even the regulars who prefer to take their drinks in two or three yeasty mouthfuls are taking the time to savor. The conversations are idle, scattered, voices hushed down as soft as the night air.
The pub’s not completely empty, though. There are two people inside, a man and a woman, deep into a rapid-fire conversation. They’re discovering shared memories, shared places in times long past.
There are also ravens — five glossy birds, settled along the back of a booth. They’re having a little natter of their own.
No one saw them fly in. It’s a trick ravens have, for night flying; they become part of the darkness, their wings and backs just another pattern of blackness stitched against the sky. Four of them had come in together, an unkindness flying straight and low. Heading for their usual corner, they’d stopped mid-flight, and gone into hover mode. The bird at the front let out a loud, irritated clack.
‘Right, boys, look lively, now.’ The comment, aimed at his mates, moved along lines of thought, audible only to those at whom he’d aimed the comment in his head. ‘Luke, Matthew, Mark, careful now. There’s someone taken our spot.’
The bird already in possession watched the others approach. At first glance, all five were cut from the same cloth. A closer look, however, revealed subtle differences, and one obvious one — the newcomers were larger by far.
‘Evening, mate. Shove over and give us a bit of room, will you? Ta.’ The leader settled down, the others following suit. A rhythmic pattern of sound echoed out across the nearly empty public.
The two humans lifted their heads a moment, glancing at the ravens across the empty tables and half-full glasses. The woman smiled, nodded, the man lifting a hand in a passing salute, a moment of acknowledgement — the man knowing his own raven, the woman knowing her unkindness. They went back to talking.
‘Haven’t seen you round the old Green Man before, have we?’ The leader of the unkindness had his head tilted, regarding the stranger. ‘Name’s John. These here are my mates — the big one’s called Luke, and that’s Matthew and Mark, the little one down at the end. You?’
‘I don’t have a name.’ Her jerked his head toward the humans. ‘He never gave me one. I’m just the raven.’
Deb: …I love that t-shirt. Django Reinhart? Perfect. You like wearing black — do you know Neil Gaiman?
‘You’ve got no name? That’s just wrong.’ Luke had his wings folded back; he looked enormous and imposing, but his voice was friendly. ‘She gave us names. Maybe it’s just easier for them to name us when there’s more than one. Where are you from, mate? That’s a weird accent you’ve got.’
Peter: Neil and I ended up onstage together at Balticon in 2006 — a last minute thing. We were there for five minutes, two guys wearing all black, leather jackets and all, and we went straight into this spontaneous father-son shtick, like Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner doing their 2000-year-old Man routine. Why?
Deb: Neil once said something about how he was going to wear black until someone invented something darker. That’s why I asked. But I can totally see you guys riffing.
‘I’m from the Bronx. Top end of the New York City map. I spend a lot of time in the cemetery up there. You? European, I’m guessing, from the accent and the size.’
Peter: …I’m a big fan of Georges Brassens — he was a cat person, did you know that? I learned French by playing and singing Brassens in a supper club. Some nights, there would be one person eating while I played…the problem with learning French that way is that Brassens was from the south of France, so that was the accent I developed. A friend told me that my accent had moved so far south, it had left France and was now in North Africa.
‘Here, there, everywhere.’ John winked. ‘Bit of London, bit of the country, wherever she sent us off to. Always been in the UK, though. Nice to get a bit of real travel under our wings for a change. So, what did he have you doing, then? We were guarding a human after a plague — bit simple, Ben was, but a brill painter.’
Deb: Omigawd, I love Georges Brassens! Brassens, Aznavour, Yves Montand, and of course there was Piaf — we had all their albums in the house. Part of the music I grew up listening to. Remember that Montand cover, with the kitten poking its head out of his jacket? All cat guys.
‘Jesus, listen to those writers. Still talking. Don’t they ever shut up? Hang on a minute, will you? I’ll be back.’ The American raven lifted suddenly, heading for a table across the room. He landed, clumsy and grappling for a hold, just long enough to dip his beak into a glass full of amber liquid.
Deb: …Peter, I brought you a bribe. Confession time — I, um, well, stole your raven from A Fine and Private Place, and used it in Plainsong, so I brought you a copy. That scene at the beginning, the raven stealing the bologna from the Bronx deli? I have mine stealing pie to feed their human after a plague wipes out nearly everyone. You’re the only living writer I can think of who wrote a book I can actually point to and say, that book had a direct influence not only on the way I write, but on how I process the universe around me.
‘Cider. Man, that’s good stuff.’ The nameless was back, belching. ‘Sorry, what did you want to know? Oh, what did he write me doing? Same thing she wrote you doing, pretty much. I had a disgraced pharmacist who’d been living in the cemetery for about a jillion years. I used to swipe food to keep him alive. Well, you know what that’s like, I’m sure.’
He lifted his shoulders, spreading the feathers, letting them settle again. ‘Didn’t she just say she stole the idea? That makes me your father, or something, I guess. How should I know? I’m just a bird. Boy, would you listen to them? Talk talk talk, they never shut up. People don’t, do they? Oh Christ, he’s talking about cemeteries again. What is it, with people and holes in the ground?’
Peter: …You know Miles Davis is buried at Woodlawn Cemetery? Have you seen his gravestone? It’s huge, shiny black marble, sheet music carved across the bottom, a trumpet, and big letters saying ‘Sir Miles Davis.’ Then just across the path there are stones, set almost flat into the ground. If you didn’t see them, you might even walk on them or trip over them. Those are the graves of Duke Ellington and his parents. Nearby there’s a series of stones, members of Duke’s band. If he wants to jam, his guys are buried close enough to sit up and grab their axes. You look at Miles’ stone, you can’t imagine anyone daring to get close enough for that.
‘Crikey, mate, you’re right. All they ever do is rabbit and write, people do. Blah blah blah, words words words.’ Matthew, listening and absorbing, suddenly lifted himself off his perch, moving fast, a bit clumsy. ‘Excuse me a moment, but I fancy a beer.’
Up, over, a table close to the two humans. He dipped, drank, paused to listen a moment, and drank again.
Across the pub, Luke snorted. ‘He looks like one of them bobbing bird toys. What’s he doing, then? Eavesdropping? Can’t imagine why he’d bother. They can’t have anything interesting to say, you know?’
Deb: …Marilyn Monroe? Really?
‘How right you are, mate. They’re talking about some woman who had It. Not a clue what It is, though, and I don’t give a rat’s arse, either.’ Matthew, hovering, looked a bit shaky. He had a mean look in his eye. ‘Shove over, mate, give a bird a place to sit. Nice beer, but strong stuff.’
Peter: …Really. She and my cousin were walking down the street together. Marilyn was wearing an old raincoat, no makeup, and people were walking right past her. No one gave her a second look. She asked my cousin, You want to see me turn it on? My cousin swore Marilyn hadn’t done anything different, but suddenly, heads were turning and people were whispering and it was Marilyn Monroe. It was as if she’d flicked a switch. She told my cousin, It’s a trick.
Deb: My own theory is that it’s pheromones. Send out a banner scent on the air — that whole trick, pheromonal control, that’s a form of witchcraft, magic.
‘Matthew, you sozzled or something?’ John was watching his friend, who seemed to have a serious tilt backwards. ‘Oi! Might want to straighten your back there, mate. You’re going arse over teapot, you don’t watch it.’
Deb: …Holy shit, you didn’t like Bob Dylan either? Saw him live when I was barely an adolescent and thought he was a pretentious snob with adenoids. It took me twenty years to appreciate anything he did at all.
Peter: …A friend of mine at the time told me Dylan was going to be huge. I thought he was crazy, and said so. The guy couldn’t sing, couldn’t play guitar, couldn’t even blow a good harmonica. My friend said, he’s going to be huge because he wants it so much more than anyone else out there.
The nameless lifted off, heading back to what remained of the cider he’d raided. Unluckily, he got there just as the barmaid, reaching the table a nanosecond before him, was reaching for the glass. He let out a loud croak, and moved; his beak rapped the table no more than an inch from her fingers. She jumped back, met his eye, and moved away, leaving the cider where it was.
The bird took another few hits from the glass and went back to the unkindness, muttering to himself; he seemed to be going from irritable to morose. The two humans, watching him with some amusement, noted the slight weave to his flight pattern, and went back to their conversation.
Peter: …had a dog, years ago, around 1974. Part coyote — her name was Maya. She was very shy, very nervous. We loved that dog. One day, a friend came to visit. He was driving an old van, and the clanking and the noise scared the dog and she ran away. She was gone for days. I was working on a script for Earl Hamner, Jr., the guy who did The Waltons, and I couldn’t get any work done. Too worried about the dog, and the kids were devastated. Hamner called me to ask how it was going, and I had to tell him, it wasn’t. I told him about Maya. He said, Peter, I really need that script. But listen, my wife has this animal deity thing, and when she really wants something, she visualizes it and talks to it. She calls it Superdog. Want me to ask her to talk to Superdog for you? I said, sure, couldn’t hurt.
Deb: …!!!! Earl Hamner’s wife knew a TRICKSTER GOD!
Peter (grinning): Around midnight that night — I am not making this up — we heard a scratching at the door, and there was Maya. She was thin, sore patches all over her, crying and weak and scared but she was THERE, she was home. The kids were all over her, hugging her, my wife was crying. I called Hamner — I woke him up — and said, kiss your wife for us, because it worked. So now, whenever I need to pray to anything, I just pray to Superdog. We should probably think about heading out…Deborah, can you get the barmaid’s attention? Oh, hello, listen, we need a couple of pints, cider and ale — no, not for us, but put it on our tab, and can we settle up?
The barmaid, a brimming glass in each hand, headed for the ravens. She did a wide circle, taking the long way round, approaching with one cautious eye on the birds. She set the glasses down at the ravens’ booth. ‘Compliments of Uncle Fox and the Rocker Chick,’ she told them, and backed away.
‘Now, I call that civilized. What have we got, then? Cider and pale ale?’ John, about to dip in, caught a look from Luke, and sighed. ‘Right, okay, designated flyer. Price of leadership. Cheers, mate. Help yourselves. I’m flying dry tonight — I’ll lead the way home.’
Lest you think that Peter is the only one who has been grievously harmed by Connor and his faux publishing house, let me direct you to a site that sets the record straight on that matter: Fans Against Fraud, which bears the helpful subtitle of ‘Helping fans warn each other about scams.’
Be it for a petty amount of money, say the check he cashed for a signed DVD that never was posted to the fan who paid for it at a viewing of The Last Unicorn film, or perhaps money taken for a book that hadn’t even been written yet, Connor considered everything to be less important than milking Peter for all he was worth in public appearance after public appearance.
As the Fans Against Fraud site notes, ‘Cochran played Peter’s agent, personal life manager and publisher all at once – with breathtaking conflict of interest. ‘ I can tell you as one involved over the years in the Celtic music business that this is a situation that always comes to a really miserable end. Someday I’ll tell y’all the story of the tour manager who got a little too closely involved with the vocalist…
I’m biased strongly in favor of Peter in this situation. I’ve met Peter but once — it was a memorable meeting indeed. I’ve got personally signed copies of The Last Unicorn DVD, the Mirror Kingdoms collection and several other works. I’ve even had several charming email conversations with him over the years.
Peter deserves far better than what Connor has done to him. WE as fans deserve far better as well. Let’s make sure that this happens as soon as possible.
So go to the Fans Against Fraud site if you feel you’ve been cheated by Connor and tell your story. And do comment here as well. In part this site exists because Connor has control of both peterbeagle.com and petersbeagle.com.