Minimidget in "They Called Him... Big Boy!" -- from Amazing-Man Comics #16, 1940

Salutations, dear friends. I am overjoyed to report that I'm--quite literally--back on my feet! The modern breakthroughs and conveniences of science and medicine continue to astound me.

Bound to my ailing, gouty foot is a fantastic device. I believe Dr. Doynter referred to it as a "digital phase compressor." He said the phrase once, rather quickly, and patently refused to repeat it. "Don't get it wet" was something he told me, over and over again.

I am not sure if Dr. Doynter really likes me as a person. I suppose that isn't the most cogent point of reference between physician and patient. Doctors have every right to like--or not like--their subjects.

He is rather remote--as said earlier, he despises small-talk. His favored modus operandi is a funereal silence, punctuated by his harsh exhalations of breath. It's something akin to a teapot's whistle--perhaps pitched an octave lower, but just as sharp and arresting.

Its tone becomes quite staccato when the Doctor concentrates most heavily. At this time, he chuckles to himself--as if recalling the macabre punch-line to long, gruesome shaggy-dog story.

I'm not quite sure that I like Dr. Doynter. But he is a "pro," and I am but a humble patient.

While the Doctor attached the "gizmo" to my foot, I recalled today's story, and chuckled my own private chuckle. Dr. Doynter looked at me--his eyes reading a mix of contempt and curiosity--and then returned to the focus of his work.

Let me describe this apparatus while my memory is still fresh. It consists of a series of blue-hued "gel-packs," which are molded to conform to the contours of my afflicted foot--and to the dimensions of each toe.

The sensation to my feet and toes is warm and squishy--akin to a hot, wet towel. Apparently, these "gel-packs" suspend my foot and toes, and isolate each "digit" to reduce stress, chafing and abrasion.

The packs are enclosed by a translucent plastic shell, which has a pattern of sea-shells and starfish printed on it. On the bottom of this casing is a small, lubricated wheel. By simply scooting forward, while using a cane for balance, my foot is free of pain and stress.

It does make driving difficult. My foot tends to stick on the gas pedal, which has caused numerous unwanted accelerations at red lights, busy intersections, and has frightened more than a few pedestrians.

To help warn others of my state, I made a sign, which I've affixed to the front of my car. BAD FOOT, it reads. MAY PRESS GAS PEDAL. PLEASE PARDON ME.

Dr. Doynter said that, if I can successfully keep this gadget water-free for one week, that it may do the trick for my gout. As well, I have stuck steadfast to a no-goodies diet. Friends, it is like eating straw, pebbles and sticks. I do not recommend it unless you are an antelope or gazelle!

It was my errant driving that brought today's story to mind. Shockingly, for its era, this tale depicts a cold-blooded hit-and-run automobile attack--in which a small child is slaughtered. This story has brought tears to my eyes more than once.

It is a reminder that I must remain vigilant--I must learn to control the gas pedal whilst still I wear this device. How bitterly ironic, if this object, designed to heal, should lead me to kill another!

Some good news: Dorrie is back home! The trombone symposium proved too much for her nerves. As well, my insurance has agreed to pay for a new car! I shall miss my old faithful Dodge Dart. It's deeply interwoven with my panelological findings and passions.

But the old girl doesn't get good gas mileage, and she's begun to rattle and clunk in her dotage. The check should arrive any day now.

And, if the "Digital Phase Compressor" does its magic, I shall return to my office next week. I can only imagine the disarray of my desk! Other employees tend to use a vacant desk for their "home-away-from-home." It will be covered with sandwich crumbs, old coffee cups, abandoned note-pads with pornographic doodles, and such. I've come to expect these "glad tidings" from my "team members." I try to set a good example by not sullying the workspaces of others... but one can only do one's best. After that, 'tis said, the devil with the rest!

And, on that note, here is an outstanding episode of the highly imaginative, unpredictable Golden Age gem-- MINIMIDGET!









As with any work excerpted from a longer narrative, this "Minimidget" tale may contain some puzzling references. Writer-artist John Franklin Kolb favored lengthy, byzantine plot-lines that, in some cases, casually extended across a dozen issues!

This story well displays his love of combining story genres. Here, in its seven pages, we encounter the following:

Robots! Gangsters! Color-changing automobiles! Scientists! Bank robberies! Burning houses! One could easily fashion an acceptable story from any single element on this list. Mr. Kolb believed "the more, the merrier" in his narrative style. He accosted the lucky reader with everything but "the kitten sink." His seven-page stories read like a full-length graphic novel to this reporter.

Poor Kolb did not last long in the panelological realm. Wartime duties called him--not as a soldier or sailor, but as a machinist. Kolb went to work for Lockheed, where his imaginative skills helped devise several war-winning gadgets.

Kolb paid the price for his ingenuity--he made the panelologists' ultimate sacrifice. Both his arms were severed at the elbow during a factory mishap, in which a poorly-installed buzzsaw blade flew loose of its housing. The unfortunate man was in the blade's vicious path.

Kolb learned to draw with a pencil or pen in his mouth, but the results did not match his earlier "Minimidget" work. He attempted to return to the comic magazine trade. It took him, on average, 11 months to complete a six-page story. He could not generate sufficient income to survive.

Kolb became a screenwriter for television. His scripts adorned such classic series as "Lassie "Ironside" and "Rawhide." A mind such as his could not cease its imaginative paths. Even in the heavy restrictions of television, Kolb produced solid, satisfying plays. I haven't seen any of his "boot-tube" work in years, but I recall it as fondly as his panelological efforts of yore.

I just peeked in on Dorrie. Poor dear! She is apparently pretending to make some brownies. Old habits die hard. I await the day when I can, once again, savor the rich rewards of her culinary clarity!

"Magno the Magnetic Man," from Super-Mystery Comics 2, 1940

'Tis food for thought, how quickly a man's life can change.

One day, a fellow might find himself in a hospital bed, beneath crisp, unfamiliar sheets, a acid-measuring device embedded in his great toe.

The next day, this same person might find himself sitting in a dimly-lit, remote motel room, out on a lonesome highway, as dusk tinges the sky with the shades of night.

In said room, with its faint but pervasive smells of ammonia and mildew, many nights and many lives have passed. Moments of joy have been experienced here; eons of sadness and desolation have set the scene most often.

In was in such a place--Lex's Econo-Tel, out on Highway 32A, that I found myself, last night. It was not my room. It had been rented by Dorrie.

Illumed by a single reading light, the room had an ancient gloom. The sighs and roars of passing cars and trucks could be heard--intrusions of the outside world.

Within the room, a small drama unfolded. "I've only been hurting you, Mace," Dorrie said, her voice faint. "I've tried to please you, but all I've done is to hurt you."

I'd been released from the hospital the day before, and was given hope by Dr. Doynter that I could be on the mend. The trick: it was imperative that I avoid unnecessary fats, sweets, and all rich foods.

You'll recall a dressing-down Dr. Doynter gave Dorrie, in my previous post. The doctor is a no-nonsense man--you can tell this by the scent of his after-shave. His is not a grab-bag of forced jollity, or idle chitter-chat about sport teams, the weather, or the latest "pop" fads.

He realized that my dietary needs were not being met. They were, in fact, being subverted by every creamy, fudgy, tangy, chewy delight that issues forth from Dorrie's kitchen.

True, I was getting some green, leafy vegetables, some sensible starches and "carbos" and good proteins. But there was a great deal of Ranch dressing, croutons, Baco-Bitz and cheese cubes added to the mix.

Dorrie is quite sensitive about her culinary arts. She took Dr. Doynter's wake-up call as a total repudiation of her self-worth. Thus, she announced to me that she wanted a "trial separation" from our marriage.

She rented a room at Lex's for one week. She told me that, after one week, if I felt I could do without her in my life, that she would leave.

This is, of course, poppycock. I need Dorrie like a blind man needs a cane. She makes a positive difference in my life. Her way of showing friendship and love is to make delicious things.

I tried to tell her that, perhaps, she might be offering too much of a good thing. I honestly wished to follow the doctor's orders. I didn't want the gout to worsen. I'd not adjusted well to this preview of affliction. It lessened my life.

For example, my once-daily visits to The Pantheon were now dwindled to one a week. With great discomfort, I would hobble, using an umbrella or croquet mallet for an ersatz cane, and select a handful of precious panelological gems from a random box. The trip back to the house would almost seem to do me in. And I'd usually find, to my disgust, that I'd grabbed some filler comics--things I was not entirely in the mood to peruse.

Why, I asked myself, did I hang onto such uninteresting titles as Here's Howie and Big Town? I suppose it is nigh-impossible for me to cruelly discard a vintage comic magazine, no matter how dull its contents. These zircon stones were no substitute for the true gems in my gatherum.

I hit the jackpot this morning with the second issue of Super-Mystery Comics, from 1940. I traded a three-foot stack of assorted war, romance and racing-car comic magazines to obtain this trail-blazing gem, back in 1974. Seeing it again, especially in the frame of reference of the emotional and physical strain that has plagued me, was tantamount to running into a beloved old friend, after having not seen them for decades.

But I digress. Dorrie was having a terrible time of it at the Econo-Tel. In all the other rooms were visitors from out-of-town--all of them trombone players, here for a "sliphorn shindig"--the 33rd Annual Tri-State Trombone Rally.

Day and night, trombonists of all skill levels played scales, in every key known to music, or repeated sliding, sloppy "riffs" from their song-bag of Dixieland "toe tappers."

These musicians were unconstrained by city noise regulations--the Econo-Tel is outside our city limits. They were free to play their hearts out, around the clock.

Last night, I tried to convince Dorrie that she has the wrong idea--and that this 'round-the-clock tromboning will take a deadly toll on her sanity. "Come home, dear," I said in all sincerity. "Our house is just an empty shell without you there."

Dorrie said she would seriously consider my suggestion. All around her, sliding glissandos and horse-laugh effects filled the air.

I gave Dorrie a goodnight hug and left the room. As I walked down the long breezeway, a trombone fell from a window above. It hit the windshield of my car, and cracked the glass. Thank the stars for my insurance! This "sliphorn king" will regret his idle disposal of an instrument. Talk about your "play and pay!"

I hope Dorrie will rid herself of this implausible notion that she is a fifth wheel and come back home. Just a few more weeks of salads and broccoli and I might return to her cream-cakes and toffee bars.

And now, onto our story of note. This is another pioneering panelological epic--15 full pages of adventure, mystery and suspense. courtesy of artist-writer Harry Lucey.

"Magno" continued for several years, but was rarely as good as in its first few appearances. This tale of mystery-men in inflatable rubber suits, who imperil the world with their drill-car and hypnosis ray, will no doubt leave you haunted and of the need to look over your shoulder in fear and surprise.

To this day, the sound of a tire inflating sends a small chill down my spine... but I fear I've given too much away! Read this savory gem and see for yourself!

















Harry Lucey is among the unrecognized geniuses of early panelology. He wrote and drew with a drive and fire seldom equaled by even the best of his peers. Yet Lucey did not aspire to be a cartoonist!

Lucey was a trained orthodontist, living in British Columbia during the Great Depression. He sold home-made clocks by mail to augment his meager income. Indeed, the "Lucey Time-piece" is now a sought-after collector's item. His attention to detail on his clocks--which typically depicted an event from American history--was often stunning.

How did he get into the world of panelology? For years, fellow historians and collectors pondered this mystery. Lucey died in 1953, long before men such as myself cared to learn more about the creators of the beloved comic magazines.

I stumbled upon the answer to this panelological riddle quite by accident one day in 1977. I was in upstate New York, in a secluded barn that doubled as a sort of rural thrift store. At that time, I had an almost-infallible "sixth sense" with vintage comic magazines. I could pass a place, quite at random, and get a strong feeling that, within its walls, lurked the fragile objects of my dreams.

This barn, strewn with toddler clothes and old parachutes, contained one battered steamer trunk. Within this trunk, carefully wrapped in vintage newspapers, were over 100 choice comic magazines.

One bundle was concealed 'neath a 1933 edition of The Tacoma Times. An item on its front page intrigued me. The headline read, in large bold type:

MYSTERY MAN FOUND
UNCONSCIOUS IN
COLD-STORAGE CAR

The story told of a young man who had apparently been involved in a vicious fist-fight at the Vancouver rail yards. His assailant had tossed the body of his victim, knocked cold, into an unused cold-storage car.

The train made its way to the Tacoma train yards. There,a "railroad bull," making a routine check of the incoming cars for hobos, discovered the still-breathing but bruised form of one Harold D. Lucey.

When roused, Lucey gave his profession as "orthodontist," and claimed he was the victim of a card game gone wrong.

The story made no note of Lucey's future plans. It would appear that he made his way to New York. How he became a cartoonist is anyone's guess. Perhaps his Canadian medical degrees were worthless in "the States." Perhaps Lucey had seen enough overbites and jaw defects to last him a lifetime.

He was a natural-born artist and cartoonist. The elegance of his brush-line suggests an Alex Raymond--but a Raymond of a less formal bent. One detects a surgeon's eye for detail in his meticulous yet organic illustrations.

His imagination was as vivid as any pioneer panelologist. What visions! What thrills! To this day, this "Magno" tale remains my favorite of Lucey's work. I hope you have enjoyed it, as well.

Now, if only Dorrie will come home and let bygones be bygones. In the meantime, I'll eat some spinach and carrots, and hope for the best. How I miss her sour-cream crumb cake...

Flip Falcon In the 4th Dimension from "Fantastic Comics" #20, 1941

Greetings, my comrades in the comic arts. I write to you today from a most unusual spot: a hospital bed.

My gout has not improved. Thus, Dr. Doynter asked me to stay at the Emberton Memorial Medical Center for an overnight check-up. Thank heavens for my insurance coverage. I believe they charge patients by the breath in this place.

This hospital has "hi-fi" Internet service. That means that I may access the Web, and its sundry wonders, from this none-too-cozy hospital bed.

Dr. Doynter seems confident that this bout of gout can be vanquished. I am quite ready to return to my normal workaday life. I am sure the office is a lesser place without my presence. I am, if anything, a "den father" to the others at the office. Without me, I sense my "team members" drifting, unable to fend for themselves--even worried.

Dorrie had a consultation with Dr. Doynter, after she dropped me off for registration. I was privy to the better part of it. Dr. Doynter's tone of voice became quite heated. I heard such phrases as "no marshmallows," "keep your butter to yourself" and "egg nog is poison to this man!"

Dorrie seemed downhearted as she left the consultation. She could not bear to look me in the eye.

Finally, she sat beside me on the hospital bed, and took my hand. "Mace," she said, in a stage whisper, "I didn't mean to hurt you. I know how you love my cooking. It makes me happy to fix treats for you. But the doctor says--"

I squeezed her hand and smiled. "Dr. Doynter just doesn't understand me the way you do. Soon enough I'll be back on my feet--"

"Oh, Mason." Dorrie looked downcast again. She has me pegged as an inveterate punster. I do not consciously plan such answers. Nor do I intend them to be puns of any kind. It rather miffs me when Dorrie reacts this way. It was all I could do to bite my tongue and remain calm.

"That is to say, when my gout is cured and I am able-bodied again. When that day comes, I shall welcome any and all treats from your cookbook."

Dorrie smiled: at last she saw my sincerity. All was well again.

That was two hours ago. In that time, I began to get bored with the stasis of hospital life. I'd despaired of the fact that I didn't have any new scans with which to compose a posting here.

Who should come to the rescue but good old "Sparks" Spinkle. Today's story arrived in my Gmail box some half an hour ago, along with this e-mail. I'm sure "Sparks" won't mind my sharing it with you:

_________________________________________________________________________

From: Wallace Spinkle [sparkgun@gmail.com]
Date: Tue, 3 Nov 2009 13:40:05 -0800
Subject: Flip Falcon
To: macemoray@gmail.com

Mason, you old rutabaga!

Just serving my time here at the "coo-coo chalet." Today's my turn to
run the library here. Nothing much to read, but I do get to use the
library scanner.

Thought I'd treat you to another top tale from the old funnybook
vault. Remember how we used to talk about "Flip Falcon" back in the
day? The fella could just leap into his screen and visit the fourth
dimension.

I still laugh about the time I tried to do that with my TV set. Guess
I'd had too much beer or something! All I got was a sore head, and my
Magnavox never quite worked right after that.

You know, "Flip" was one of the few Fox characters who got better
later in the game. The rest of 'em are dull as crackers by this time.
Not old "Flip." He kept his edge.

Tell your wife that anytime she feels like baking me some cookies, or
some of that fudge pound cake, that it's always welcome. The desserts
here taste like school paste.

Come to think of it, everything here tastes like school paste. Except
for the school paste! It tastes like filet min-yoan.

Maybe you can run this "Flip Falcon" story on your almighty blog. Just
mention my name and make with your usual brilliant comments.

Oop, gotta go. Some nut's waiting to check out "The Story of Mankind"
in an EZ-Eye edition. Should I tell him how it ends?

Cordially yours, warmly,

Wally

________________________________________________________________________

Here, then, is "Sparks"' gift to us all: "Flip Falcon in the 4th Dimension." Enjoy!









"Flip" did indeed improve as it went onward. Writer-artist "Orville Wells" was, in reality, a shy substitute teacher named James Mannings Jr. Mannings served at a Catholic grade school where comic magazines were considered the anathema to clean living.

Thus, Mannings wrote and drew "Flip" on the fly. He would rent a hotel room some 75 miles away from his apartment for one weekend every month. There, he would feverishly create a new "Falcon" adventure.

The finished art boards were mailed to a laundry near Times Square. Once received, they were ferried to the Fox offices by an elderly woman who rode a tricycle. Most Fox staffers vividly recall these deliveries. They marked the only times a female ever entered the Fox premises!

This is, indeed, a particularly choice episode in "Flip"'s career. Herein, he battles Lucifer himself, is tricked by a false show of cowardice, and nearly gobbled whole by snake-like "death plants"--all vividly, thrillingly rendered by Mannings.

Sadly, this story "outed" Mannings to his superiors. The story was the subject of a highly negative sermon one Sunday morning, soon after its publication. Mannings' intent had been to incorporate Lucifer into the fictive world of "Falcon" to prove his evangelical zeal to his readership.

The minister chose to interpret the story as "devil worship," foisted upon innocent, unknowing youth by sinister miscreants.

This provoked Mannings to stand up before the congregation and announce, loudly, "I am this sinister miscreant!"

Mannings was fired on the spot. Alas, "Flip" was soon cancelled. Mannings was drafted, and saw some heavy action via the Merchant Marines.

At war's end, he became America's most distinguished biographer of birds. His illustrated books, Confessions of a Thrush and I, Woodpecker remain in print to this very day.

Touches of the "Orville Wells" style abound in his generous, full-color illustrations. Mannings sought to depict avian life as it really happened. By giving voice to our feathered friends, Mannings won many accolades, in public and print alike, before his untimely death in 1970.

I hoped to interview Mannings, but missed that boat of opportunity.

I now await the results of Dr. Doynter's tests on my foot. He has attached some sort of hose to my big toe. Its constant humming and vibrating has been a distraction while I composed this post. But if it means I walk away a better man, so be it.

Ah, my health salad has arrived! I must sign off. Perhaps, when next we meet, I will be cured!

Yarko's Master Speaks: An Interview with William Eisner, 1969

Greetings, friends of panelology! I regret that nearly half a month has passed since my last "posting."

It seems my gout has not significantly improved. My physician, Dr. Doynter, insists that my ureic acid levels are still dangerously high.

I have been sticking to the "microbot" diet he suggested--for the most part. Dorrie made a mocha fudge meringue pie the other night, and I couldn't resist two slices. Talk about the devil in disguise! I've asked Dorrie not to tempt me with her tastebud-bursting treats. She so loves to make sweets and rich goodies... I can't deny her the homemaker's joy of her kitchen concoctions.

On the other hand, I am powerless in their compulsive thrall.

Dorrie is, at present, baking for an upcoming church rummage sale. The heavenly scents of butterscotch brownies, double-dipped fudge bars, and her breath-taking Strawberry Sea-Foam waft through our humble home.

I've locked myself in our study, where I write this episode on a "laptopper" computer I have borrowed from the office. My gout has unfortunately restricted my movement in the world. But I'm still of able mind, if not able body. Thus, I do much of my work at home.

You know, it's a comfortable routine. Dorrie's coffee is far, far better than the brew we drink at the office. And it is much easier to take an afternoon nap at home. Part of me--dare I say it?--wishes my gout would never quite heal!

Yet part of me decries this as balderdash--rot--nonsense! I want to be well again. My vigor for panelology still drives me to hurtle forward, ever in search of the inspirational gems hidden 'neath the yellowing pulp pages of vintage comic magazines.

But today is a day of rest--and of reflection. Thus, I delve into my own past for our posting.

I have been asked repeatedly about the legendary interviews I conducted for various fan-zines in the 1960s and 1970s. I was fortunate to be there when the old masters of panelology were still walking amongst us. For the price of a hot dog, a pretzel or a gin and tonic, various greats would happily sit and reminisce, whilst my borrowed tape recorders captured their timeless talk for the ages.

I vividly recall the interview you are about to experience. It was a humble and great pleasure to speak with the famed William Eisner in New York City, on Sunday, March 13th, 1969, in downtown Manhattan. I was there to visit some fellow panelology buffs, and, on a dare, I dialed Mr. Eisner's number (then found in the common white page phone directory) and asked him to be interviewed.

I fully expected to be told to "get lost, kid!" To my delight, Mr. Eisner agreed to meet with me. "I love to talk about the old days," he said, a smile in his voice.

I only wish that someone had accompanied me, with a camera, to commemorate the event. Not that the photograph would have seen print. In those simpler times, our fan-zines were printed at home, on a foul-smelling hectographic press.

My thumbs bore the purple ink of the hectographic drum for years and years. The fumes of the ink sometimes threatened to knock me unconscious. Drops of sweat from my brow decorated many a page that went "to press" in the basement of the bowling alley (of which I, you'll recall, was assistant manager).

An occasional spot of blood might also touch those paper pages--paper cuts were amongst the frequent hazards of us pioneering "zineists." The same went for staple punctures. These wounds could easily become infected. Frank Fitzgerald, publisher of Wow Bang and Star Spangled Heroes, lost both his thumbs from infected staple wounds. He died a broken man in 1973.

Here, then, from the debut issue of Panelologist's Pride, is the interview of interviews with a man some might contend to be the true "king of comic magazines"--William Eisner!

The time: Sunday morning, 11:15 AM.

The place: a booth of the venerable "Snack Shoppe," in the prestigious outer lobby of the Waldorf-Lipkin Hotel, itself a nexus of the heart of Manhattan.

The objective: to obtain an interview with one of the greats of our panelological realms--William E. Eisner!

Your reporter sat nervously at the table, awaiting the entrance of true royalty. To make myself conspicuous, I sat beside a thick stack of classic Eisner panelology: various issues of WONDERWORLD COMICS, which contained Eisner's true masterwork--YARKO THE GREAT, MASTER OF MAGIC!

Though Mr. Eisner is perhaps better-known for his long-running popular success, THE SPIRIT, I feel that more than enough has been said about this admittedly clever but over-rated effort. It was about Eisner's earlier, more experimental work that I felt compelled to discuss with its creator. I only hoped that the great Mr. Eisner shared some of my appreciation for his own work.

Our conversation began after we shook hands, and we both ordered breakfast specials. From the start, it was evident that he recognized his old handiwork. Held in my own hands was WONDERWORLD COMICS #4--the home of one of Eisner's most fully-realized panelological masterworks.

WILLIAM E. EISNER: (gesturing to comic magazine) Haven't seen that old thing in years and years...

MASON MORAY: Sir, I knew you would recognize it! That is why I chose it as my calling card.

Well, you could have picked a better one! (laughs) Boy, we worked so hard on those things...

Yes. They are clearly labors of love.

(laughs) We were learning on the job! You see, we just batted those stories out. Lou Fine, Bob Powell, George Tuska--we were all kids, so excited to be doing what we were doing. We had so much left to learn...

Fine was great, right out of the starting gate. Man, could that boy draw! You know, when I went in the service, he took over my baby...

I wasn't aware you had children, Mr. Eisner.

(laughs) No, no! I mean THE SPIRIT. I always referred to it as "my baby." You see, I owned the feature. I was one of the first fellows in the field to retain the copyright on his work.

I'm aware that you are somewhat proud of THE SPIRIT. It did very well for you in the comics marketplace.

Well, yes, it did. I had all the fronts covered. You see, it got its start as a newspaper supplement. We sold a newspaper comic book to several prominent Sunday papers. And then we had it as a daily strip for a few years.

Meanwhile, Busy Arnold, over at Quality Comics, licensed the feature to reprint in his comic magazines. And then later, of course, Fiction House got the license for a bit. I didn't like what they did with it that much.

And then, you know, Harvey Comics had a little run with it a few years back. I thought it would sell better, but I guess the timing was off. I'm sure today's college kids would find THE SPIRIT of some interest.

Well, people tend to like what is popular--and THE SPIRIT was popular.

But today I'd like to focus on your really strong work in the panelological form...

Beg pardon?

Panelology. The study of the comic strip or comic magazine.

Panelology? Whew--that's real tongue-twister.

What would you and your colleagues have called this artform, back in its golden era?

Aw, you know--comics, mags, books, monthlies, quarterlies, four-color jobbies. We had a lot of "inside" lingo that we kind of made up on the fly.

(gesturing to WONDERWORLD COMICS #4) So what atrocities did I commit in that particular "mag?"

(paging through it) Oh, yes. "Yarko the Great." (sighs) Well, Fox wanted a magician feature, and by God, we gave him one. Victor Fox--I'm sure you've heard stories about him.

No, sir. But his comic magazines speak for themselves.

(laughs heartily) Oh, do they ever! You know, he really thought he was the king of comics! I'm sure he was in the rackets.

You know, he used to wear a grass skirt around the office. Like the Hawaiian hula girls wore. He'd march around his place, with this damned grass skirt over his business suit, and shout, "I'm the King! The blankety-blank King of Comics!"

He was obsessed with this product he'd dreamed up. I'm serious--it came to him in a dream. It was a soft-drink called--oh, hell. Kubla Khan Cola?

KOOBA COLA. Many a panelologist has dreamed of tasting it...

Kooba Cola! That's it! The crazy thing was--it never existed! Outside of his dreams, this crap wasn't real.

But he featured it on his covers! He ran regular advertisements for the beverage for years...

Fox was a sneak. He thought that if he advertised it, and got a lot of orders for it, he could take the money and run.

But no one wanted it. He never got one single order for Kooba Cola. That's probably for the best. He would have wound up in jail!

Fascinating, Mr. Eisner! You've given me a real "scoop" with this information!

Do you recall anything else about Mr. Fox? He is a real mystery figure in panelology...

(sighs) He was a mystery figure to everyone! It was a mystery he didn't get himself fitted for a cement overcoat!

He sure got me in some hot water! Are you familiar with WONDER MAN?

I once paid a man five dollars to read the story.

Wow! I don't think I made five cents off it! You know, Donenfeld and his cronies took us to court over that one. They claimed it was a rip-off of their SUPERMAN. Which it was--but that's what Fox told us to do. "Make me one of those blankety-blank Supermans!"

You see, Fox would just buy comic books from us, outright. He didn't care what went into them. I could have put in 68 pages of dancing dwarves. As long as it was camera-ready and printable, Fox would've run it.

But this one time, I bowed to pressure, and did something that really went against my ethics. I hated doing WONDER MAN. I suppose it shows in the published story. I couldn't sleep while I worked on that one. I'd wake up in the middle of night in a panic: "What if this thing takes off? What if I'm stuck doing WONDER MAN the rest of my life?"

Of course, that wasn't the case. We only ran that one story, and then the ax fell. And guess who got sweet-talked into appearing in court? Not "King" Fox. No sir, I took the stand and got my knuckles rapped. I had a kind of black mark on me for awhile. If it hadn't been for THE SPIRIT, I don't think I would have lasted in comics.

That's how YARKO was created. We had a contract for the second issue of WONDER COMICS, and SOMETHING had to be the cover feature.

One night I wrote down a list of the types of characters that comic magazines had, and ones they hadn't. Donenfeld had a magician feature already--ZATARA. Freddy Guardineer did that one. Zatara was a take-off of MANDRAKE--an obvious rip-off. So I felt safe in creating another magician. No one could sue me, because everyone else already had a knock-off magician feature!

YARKO was a means to an end.

Some, sir, would disagree...

You've got to be kidding! This was just make-work. Something to fill pages. A way for us to learn how to properly harness this medium of the comic mags.

It's been said that a creator is, by far, the least judge of his or her work...

Who said that?

I read it somewhere. It may have been Norman Mailer.

Huh...

In other words, a creator may have a soft spot for certain ideas that might not be their strongest work. Whereas ideas they consider weak may have more effect on others... such is the case with YARKO.

YARKO was strictly one-dimensional stuff. Now, you take THE SPIRIT... that was where I feel my abilities as a storyteller, and as a cartoonist, began to solidify. I had high ambitions for THE SPIRIT.

We were seeing films like CITIZEN KANE, THE GRAPES OF WRATH, STAGECOACH, HIS GIRL FRIDAY... the look and feel of these landmark movies left a deep impression on us all. Everyone was trying to out-Welles Welles in our comic book stories.

In my humble opinion, THE SPIRIT was a means to an end. A pleasant enough feature, yes. And its success was a boon to you. It was a real crowd pleaser.

I'm sad that it took you away from your more personal, and, to me, fulfilling works in panelology...

You're really serious, aren't you?

YARKO is your obvious masterpiece. Everything you did in THE SPIRIT had already been accomplished in YARKO. In my opinion.

{Eisner looks around} This is a gag, huh? What, am I on CANDID CAMERA? Ha ha ha! You fellas got me! OK, you can come out now... (Eisner gets up from table, looks under booths, behind counter, wanders outside restaurant...)

Mr. Eisner returned to the restaurant some 10 minutes later. He looked flushed and sweaty--and most unhappy.

There weren't any cameras.

No, sir, just myself and my tape recorder...

(Eisner sits down) You mean you're serious? You really like YARKO more than THE SPIRIT?

Quite honestly--yes. YARKO, WONDER MAN, ESPIONAGE, UNCLE SAM, THE DOLL MAN--all superior creations to the over-rated SPIRIT.

Tell me why. Seriously--I'd love to know why you feel this way.

Sir, it is my opinion that THE SPIRIT weighted down your sense of imagination. While undeniably skillful in its approach, and pleasing to the eye, THE SPIRIT was earthbound, where YARKO and his brethren dared to reach for the skies--and fulfill the dreams of young readers.

(gesturing to closing panel of story) Yet you found a place for realism in YARKO. I've always quite appreciated the conclusion of this story. Here, you have a heroic figure--far more powerful than any mere mortal--and yet he feels warmth for the young woman.

I only wish THE SPIRIT had such moments of human interest.

Another instance I would cite is at the conclusion of the WONDER MAN story, in which Wonder Man kisses the unconscious woman he has rescued. It is a genuinely daring moment--one that expanded the boundaries of the panelological form.

I don't condemn you, Mr. Eisner. THE SPIRIT was your "bread and butter" feature. It paid the bills. It kept you going through the 1940s. And it was liked by many who read it.

It had a large regular readership. It was in several big papers. They begged us not to shut it down. But it was going stale. That's why we folded it in late '52. I'd done all I felt I could do with the feature. And I didn't want it continued. I'd seen what happened when less inspired creators took over a feature. It's heartbreaking.

I want to make sure I'm getting you correctly. You honestly prefer THE SPIRIT to all your other panelological works.

Yes. All my other panelol--works in comics were just a dress rehearsal for THE SPIRIT. You've expressed your opinion--I'll express mine.

Are we done?

I must confess I am disappointed by our discussion, Mr. Eisner. I wish you the very best.

Well, I didn't mean to disappoint you, kid. You have some funny ideas about comics.

One last question, if I may.

You might as well.

Any hopes of a YARKO revival? With the growing popularity of Marvel Comics' DOCTOR STRANGE--an obvious knock-off of your early work--I believe a revived YARKO would capture the imagination of comic magazine readers in the same--

I've got a headache. I need to go.

Good luck to you and your fan magazine.

(to waitress) He's covering the check.

With those words, Mr. Eisner left the Snack Shoppe. He remains an enigma, a figure as dark and shadowy as the pen-and-ink figures that fill the panels of his variegated creations. I hope he will change his mind about the YARKO revival. He is missing a sure bet, in this humble writer/interviewer's opinion.

So many years have passed since that interview. I felt frustrated about it, at the time. Truth told, I was reluctant to "run it" as the head feature of my first significant publication. But reader response was strong. Letters, pro and con (mostly the latter) filled the columns of future issues for a year or so.

With all due respect to the deceased, I still feel Mr. Eisner was wrong about his life's work. While THE SPIRIT has paled, and lost its appeal in the years since 1969, YARKO's strengths have only increased. Never did Mr. Eisner's brilliance shine more brightly than in this regrettably short-lived series.

Here is the very YARKO story we discussed in our all-too-brief interview. I'm sure you will acknowledge it as the work of greatness is truly is.

My foot has begun to throb. I had best eat a carrot. I hope to be back sooner than later.

"TNT Todd" and "Sparks" Spinkle: A "Dynamite" Combination!

The wonders of this Internet never fail to astound me. As I have composed the postings of this "blog," many's the time I've mused to myself: "If only we'd had this device back in the glory days of panelological fandom!"

You see, friends, back in the 1960s and '70s, all our correspondence had to be done by letter. Oh, an occasional long-distance call was fair game, but they were reserved for precious events and notable moments.

Thus, a panelological friendship would have to withstand days, weeks or even months of silence. The Post Office did the best it could. But it took time to ferry those letters, postcards and packages to and fro.

Over the years, I've lost touch with many of my panelological cronies of yore. Some have passed away. Some have gotten out of the hobby. Some have found religion a suitable replacement for comic magazines. Some got married and had children. Some went to prison.

We "old great mares" of panelology are showing our age. For those of us capable of climbing aboard the technology bandwagon, the benefits of the "Net" are self-evident. Sadly, I'd assumed that some of my chums of fandom were lost at sea, never to be heard from again.

You may recall that I mentioned one of the great panelologists of the golden 1960s, Wallace "Sparks" Spinkle, in a recent posting. "Sparks" was the original "Da Vinci Man" of fandom. He could write, edit, draw, staple and even mail his own fan-zines. "Sparks" was a tireless crusader for the advocacy of panelology.

I'd last seen him in 1985, at the FantastiCon in Montpelier, Idaho. Time had taken its toll on "Sparks," as it does to us all. His once wafter-thin frame had filled out considerably. His wavy head of brown hair was now thinning and flecked with grey. But the energy was still there.

"Sparks" had an especial fondness for younger fans of panelology, and he spent much of the '85 FantastiCon seeking them out. He'd stand behind them as they inevitably oohed and aahed over the latest from Marvel and DC. "Don't read that crap!" he'd shout, as he snatched the comic magazine from their hands. To the "dealer" who sold said comic magazines, "Sparks" would cluck his tongue. "Shame, shame, sir! Selling this swill to impressionable youth!"

"Sparks," ever-prepared, carried a stack of coverless "reader" comics from the Golden Age in a plastic grocery sack. "Here," he'd say, as he reached into his "goodie bag." "Try reading a real comic magazine!"

Of course, most of the tots he ambushed would simply leave his panelological gifts on the floor of the dealer room. But every once in awhile, a youngster would "see the light" and be converted to the true deep ways of panelology.

That was the last time I saw "Sparks" Spinkle. We exchanged a few letters, but by the 1990s, he had disappeared. My letters to him came back stamped "ADRESSEE NOT FOUND" or "HOUSE DOES NOT EXIST."

It began to worry me. Were we all just so much drifting wood in the sea of life now? The once-united "big wigs" of panelological fandom were scattered to the four winds. It took a great deal of the fun out of the hobby for me. Were my passion for comic magazines not so strong, I might have "dropped out" of the field and regressed to collecting bottles, matchbooks or baseball cards. I shudder at the very thought!

As said earlier, the Internet is a wonderful thing. Word has spread of my "blog," and with those words have come reconnections with past peers of panelology. Foremost amongst them, I'm proud to say, is a certain Wallace Spinkle.

I'm sure "Sparks" would not object if I quote his e-mail in its entirety. It is vintage "Sparks," and proof that his is still a vital and vibrant passion for panelology.

Mason, you old hound dog!

I bet you thought I was pushing up daisies by now! Who was that jerk who said, "ain't it funny how time slips away?" It's funny as a god-damned crutch, that's how funny it is!

First off: I'm fine. I've got "three hots and a cot." I've been a good boy, so they let me have comic books in here--and my own computer!

Whoa, Spinkle. Back up. Mason isn't in the know. What'm I talking about?

Buddy, your old pal is in the nut house. I've been here since '95. My back-stabbing step-brats ushered me in this "rest home" after they got tired of me spending their inheritance money on old funny books and creeping around my house, which they wanted to get their greasy, filthy mitts on ASAP!

Well, all it took was one sharpie lawyer and a ton of red tape, and I'd been deep-sixed out of my castle and placed in this very nice, very clean and very DULL coo-coo condo! Land sakes, my blood was aboil back when all this was new.

It was the principle of the thing that felt like bamboo 'neath my fingernails. Those ungrateful little snots just wanted me out of the way, so they could fight over my estate. I guess they figured I'd be dead soon, or declared loco.

But you know what? The docs here said I was as sane as they were. I passed all their tests with flying colors. It looked like I was going to be right back home, lickety split, and if those thieving little crap-hounds didn't like it, they could lump it!

Guess what? Red tape won! According to the law, the little darlings had to come and claim me, sign some papers, and escort me back home for the ruling to be legal. Guess what again? It's been 13 years and I haven't heard boo from either one of 'em.

But the best revenge is living well. I'm living proof of that! I can't leave this loco lodge due to the law, but I regained control of my estate--and, most importantly, my comic books!

Had 'em shipped here via UPS. Of course, no one else in this funny farm is sane enough to read anything. Their eyes are spinning clockwise from all the medicines they pump into 'em. So I'm still an army of one. It do get dull, from time to time, but one must do the best one can.

The other day, I was surfing around on the internet, when lo and behold! Whose ugly mug did I see? Holy cow, Mason, you've put on the pounds! But, then again, haven't we all? Golly, it's terrific to hear the ol' Maceroonie poundin' the panelological pulpit again!

Great picks, my friend. You're doing what I tried to do, back in the day. Push the good stuff under people's noses. Just get 'em to read it, and they'll see the light.

You're doing the good work, my man. I thought I'd contribute a little something for the cause. Remember that issue of Keen Detective Funnies I gypped you out of, back in '77? Well, it has a honey of a story called "TNT Todd." I've scanned it for you. If these danged attachments are attached, you can run it on your li'l ole pan-fried pantheon and wow 'em all over again!

All right, buddy... you haven't got rid o' me yet! Run this story, and I'll see if I can get a furlough from this hoo-hah hostel someday. We've got a lotta catching up to do!

Yours, until the cows come home,
Wally S.

And, indeed, attached were the six pages of this classic 1940 tale of "TNT Todd." Old "Sparks" wasn't kidding. He conned me out of this rare issue at the 1977 SolarCon in Winnetka. I'd found it in a box of romance comic magazines, all priced at a mere dollar.

I considered it the "Score of scores" of this particular con. That is, until "Sparks" caught sight of it. "You've got to let me have it, Mace!" He said this over and over, several times a minute, for over a half hour. It wore heavily on my browsing concentration. To save myself a million dollars' worth of misery, I let him buy the comic magazine from me for 10 dollars. I'd made a small profit, and I could rest assured for the remainder of the con that I'd have peace and quiet.

And, speak of the devil, peace and quiet is what the doctor ordered, the better for my gout to recede. I've kept up the healthy, "microbot" diet of vegetables, whole grains and such, the best I can. My foot has begun to throb, so I must regrettably sign off for now.

For once, I'll let a remarkable panelological gem speak for itself! The work of writer Dennis "Denny" Porter and artist Dix Davenport, this story is just the thing that so thrilled we elder panelological "fans" back in the happy bygone days of the 1960s and '70s.

Interesting fact: the Porter/Davenport team were too poor to afford an office space. They created their panelological classics while riding New York subway lines. From one end of Manhattan Island to the other they rode, hour after hour, Porter with his portable typewriter, and Davenport with his bread-board, ink eraser and brushes.

I interviewed Porter and Davenport briefly in 1971. Alas, I can't lay my hands on the published interview. I do recall them claiming that those non-stop subway rides gave their work a "sense of pure energy."

Dennis Porter later became a prison warden--and Davenport was among his many convicts! Despite this, they remained the best of friends, and even collaborated on a long-running comic strip for the prison newspaper.

They don't make 'em like "TNT Todd" anymore! Nor did they save the mold that cast "Sparks" Spinkle! Hurrah for them both!

Of Fever, Fantasy and Flight: "Red Hawk" Fights The Axis in "The Carnival of Courage!"

Greetings, my faithful friends!

My august apologies for such a long pause between postings here. 'Twas not intentional--it was medical!

I had been having pain in my feet for the last couple of weeks. It was not sufficient to cripple me, but I did find myself hobbling from home to office, in and out of The Pantheon, and on various spouse-instigated "missions of mercy."

This issue came to a crisis this past Friday night. Dorrie made another of her delectable pieces de resistance: Mushroom Double Sour-Cream Five-Cheese Nachos.

Few foodstuffs can boast such a mouth-watering array of delightful ingredients. I admit I ate more than my fill of this manna. It always pleases Dorrie so when I enjoy her cuisine efforts.

After dessert (banana-caramel cream pie with real whipped cream, topped with diced macadamia nuts), I settled in my den to select some future candidates for showcasing in this blog.

When the clock struck 10, I began to feel searing, agonizing pain to my right foot. It hurt when I breathed; it hurt when I held my breath.

Finally, I cried out to my wife: "Dorrie... I need a doctor!"

Dorrie doesn't drive often, but she rose to the call of duty on that gloomy night. We sped to the nearby Walter Murvis Memorial Medical Center's emergency room. There, 'midst the moaning and groaning of other ailers, we sat until 2 AM.

The doctor's prognosis was mercifully quick: I had the gout!

The physician said my uraic acid levels were "through the roof" and it was "no wonder" that I was in such pain.

The first thing he asked me was pertaining to my diet. Did you know that the foods you eat can make your foot hurt?

The upshot of it all is that Dorrie's delicious recipes are a tad too rich for my system. I am "getting up there in years;" I'm the first to admit it. The doctor's stern advice: I am to avoid rich foods for the next month, and to eat vegetables whenever possible, drink plenty of water, and, as my pain subsides, engage in regular physical exercise.

I am not quite up to speed on that last assignment. But I am following doctor's orders on the other two. To my pleasant surprise, certain vegetables are quite palatable. Did you know that broccoli, lightly steamed, is quite delicious? The same can be said for carrots, and even for that old standby of "Pop Eye," spinach.

Although I still cannot do without my morning "slug from the mug" (that's coffee, to you non-drinkers), I supplement those soothing brown sips with fresh, crisp draughts of tap water.

I am able to drive without excessive pain, after some of the swelling to my right foot has receded. Today I happily embarked on my first errand for the "missus" in some days.

She requested some Halloween decorations from the "Big Buy" store on Lancaster Bridge Parkway. Having assured her that I was "up to it," I warmed up the trusty Chevy Nova and hit the road.

Along the way, a curious sight caught my eye. It was a slender, sad-looking soul dancing by the roadside--in a loose, checkerboard-patterned costume! The garb was neither a jumpsuit nor a clown's costume--but something in-between.

Held in his jittery hands was a coffin-shaped sign that read "COTTAGE CHEESE HERE."

In the back of an adjacent parking lot was a farmer's truck. Some agrarian vended his home-made cottage cheese, fresh from the farm! I was tempted, but I recalled the doctor's orders. Altho' cottage cheese is a "health food," it is on my "must to avoid" list until I again pass muster with my physician.

Do you know who was in those indecipherable "duds"? Raphael!

Once I recognized him, I went 'round the block and approached him cautiously.

I rolled down the passenger's seat window of the Nova. "Raphael! Is that you?"

The lad stared at me, shock and bewilderment in his eyes. He did not recognize me!

"I guess so," he meekly replied.

"It's your friend, Mason! Don't you remember me, son?"

Raphael stared at me, scrutinizing me, but no light of accord came into his dark eyes. "Nuh uh."

I felt my heart sink a bit. Surely he must recall his solemn oath of fealty to me! But perhaps times have been hard on the lad.

I did not want to dicker with him. I simply smiled, nodded my head, and said, "The Home Depot. The storage shed."

That did it. "Yeah, I 'member you. Hey, listen, I can't talk here."

With perfect timing, a man in overalls ran towards the boy, belligerence in his ruddy face. "Stop wagging your tongue and start waving that sign, boy!"

Raphael shuddered in fear. "I gotta go." The farmer immediately berated Raphael. His choice of words was coarse, as befitted his rural background.

I had no choice but to drive on to "Big Buy."

I am glad to know that Raphael is gainfully employed, albeit in a line of work without much dignity. Perhaps the farmer's sales are healthy, and my young ward is making ends meets. In these hard economical times, that's the best I can hope for anyone.

Last night I had a disturbing dream. One that haunts me so, I feel compelled to share it with you. I am no artist, but I carefully re-created an image from this vision--or is it a nightmare? Read on and see...

In the dream, I was back at the hospital, for my follow-up appointment. Doctor Doynter had me sit in a gleaming white room. The room was empty, save for an examination table and a large "flattened screen" television.

I waited for what seemed an eternity. Finally, Dr. Doynter appeared. Held in his hands was a large plastic jug--at least three gallons, I'd wager. This translucent cask was filled with a light pink liquid.

"Mr. Moray, we need to run a test on you." He handed me the jug. For its size, it was astonishingly light. I hefted it, and the syrupy liquid gently sloshed within.

Dr. Doynter switched on the television. Its giant screen hummed. On it appeared the word: DEGUSSING. "In a moment," the doctor said, "a series of images will appear on this screen. I want you to drink the liquid in that bottle until you see the image of Mickey Mouse. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Do not stop drinking until you have seen Mickey Mouse. Otherwise, the tests will fail. Get ready..."

I unscrewed the cap to the jug. I lifted it to my mouth as a battery of rapid-fire images shot on the screen. The liquid was sweet, yet salty--with, indeed, the consistency of a soothing syrup.

The images on-screen were all of "cartoon critters" I recognized from my collection. The Fox and The Crow! The Ginch! Heckle and Jeckle! Pudgy Pig! More images than I can recollect or tell!

Yet each one was instantly recognizable. I kept drinking and drinking. I felt my insides filling up with this pink liquid. I watched the screen... and then, at last, I saw the image of Mickey Mouse--so recognizable and universal!

I pulled the jug away and gasped for sweet oxygen.

"Why in the world did you stop?" was the doctor's cross rejoinder.

"But," I said, panting, "I saw him. I s-saw Mickey Mouse."

"No, you didn't," Dr. Doynter said, dissaproval rampant across his face. "I'll show you what you really saw."

With a remote control, he "freeze-framed" the image I'd thought was that Disney icon. This is my crude drawing of the vision. I am no artist, but I believe this is an accurate rendition:



This image was fleshy-pink, save for the white eyes and red tongue. Mickey with his ears removed!

Dr. Doynter laughed and laughed. "No one ever gets that right!" he said. "You're not the first, and you won't be the last!"

He turned to his nurse. "Get this guy out of here." Then he left the room, and, in real life, my eyes parted wide open.

I drew the above picture on a scratch pad in the bathroom. I brought it into work, along with today's featured panelological presentation, to scan on the office scanner, which still remains in my possession.

We have a new sales "team member" at the office. His name is Charles J___________. He has insisted I call him "Charley," with an "e." He is a young, raffish go-getter, festooned with all sorts of modern gadgets, including one of those "blue stone" telephones, which permanently rests in his right ear.

Aside from some grating personal affectations--e.g., his constant referral to his automobile as his "zoom-zoom," and to young women as "hoes" (that latter one completely baffles me: of all the gardening tools to use as a metaphor, I would not associate a garden hoe with a female. I might consider a watering can, as it is in a woman's nature to nurture and help the male to grow and flourish. I have suggested that he make this substitution. He is as baffled by my metaphor as am I by his. So be it.), he is a good-natured rascal. I hope he will restore stability to our "playing field."

But enough of this non-panelological patter! Let us get down to business. Here, today, is a gem of warfaring realism, from the Second World War. The source: Blazing Comics issue 5, published in 1944.

I was born in 1946, and have never seen the battlefields of war. I consider myself fortunate indeed.

My father, Austin Moray, was a file-clerk for the Air Force during "The Big One." Although he never handled a gun, nor bayonetted an Axis spy, he had a lion's share of exciting tales about his wartime escapades. It is to him that I dedicate this story.

Unique for the comic magazines of the war, the following feature, "Red Hawk," depicts a Native American (or Indian) as a trusted fighter pilot for the Air Force. I find this kind gesture to the "red man" touching. My father knew some "Native Americans" and deemed them pleasant, intelligent peoples.

Here, then, is war hero "Red Hawk," fighting with flight in the war against evil.








Rich in wartime detail, "The Carnival of Courage" offers the "red man" a unique berth in panelology. Here, for once, we have an intelligent, talented, capable "Indian." He can fly a sophisticated jet plane. He can "down the Japs" and take orders as good as any other soldier.

My father once told me that, while the war was on, racism and hatred knew no takers. All Americans, regardless of their skin tone, were as one in their fight to keep liberty and freedom alive.

A few years ago, I showed this very story to my father--this was right before he went into the retirement center. He still worked--as a night guard at a supermarket--and still drove a pickup truck.

"Son, that's the way it really was," my father mused, as he turned the time-faded pulp pages. "This is Air Force life as I remember it!" Then he paused, in reflection, and put the comic magazine down. "Who'd of ever thought," he said, "that's we'd be driving their cars--instead of ours?" He shook his head at the irony of his own statement.

In the years since this story was published, we have forgiven Japan and Germany for their crimes of intolerance and destruction. We now eat their foods, drive their cars, and watch their motion pictures. All is well with us.

If I have offended any of my large Japanese contingent with this posting of this tale, please regard it as symptomatic of its era. Everyone in American wanted to "slap the Japs" back then. "Slant eyes," "buck toothed snake" and "yellow rat" were standard nick-names for those sons of Nippon. It was a time when all panelological heroes--even the "cartoon critters"--did their bit to eliminate the "rotten Japs" from the earth.

This is no longer the case, of course. Nor would we address Germans as "Krauts," "Nutzies" and "stinking ungodly Huns." The world is a better place now. Even if its current crop of comic magazines leave much to be desired, we have advanced as a people, and as a culture.

Stories such as this serve as a potent reminder of bygone days. I feel "Red Hawk" remains a visionary character. There is still ample room in our armed forces for Native Americans to fly fighter planes! They would save on uniforms, for one thing. As a tax payer, I am out for every "cut corner" I can find. If our air aces should go shirtless, so be it. As long as they're defending this great country of ours.

I must get home. Dorrie has waiting for me a spinach salad with buttermilk ranch dressing, bacon bits and shredded cheddar cheese. Yes, I'm beginning to enjoy this new regime of health and good nutrition.

'Til we next meet--may the skies be clear for your flight through life!

"The Bullet"--and a rare interview with panelologist/fine artist R. E. Butts!

Well! I have been "Blogged!" Yes, sir, this flattering, if bewildering write-up of my humble efforts appeared today! Here is the URAL to read it:

http://www.trickcoin.net/2009/09/let-your-funnybook-freak-flag-fly.html

Now onto today's very special post. I was asked by one of my followers, "Mr. Moray, you attended many of the early 'comic-cons' in the 1960s and 1970s. Did you meet any of the early 'Golden Age' cartoonists? Were you ever able to interview any 'lost legends' for your fanzines?"

I'm happy to give a resounding answer of "yes!" to both questions.

In those halcyon days of panelology, I met and spoke with, among others, the following giants of the artform: Jack Kirby, Carl Burgos, William Everett, Robert Powell, William Eisner, Martin Nodell, Joseph Kubert, C. C. Beck, Vernon Henkel... oh, how the list could rattle on!

Friends, you have no idea of the ease with which an eager young disciple of the panelologic arts could encounter the geniuses who brought our four-color dreams to the printed and inked page!

I managed to do interviews with many of these "key figures" for my best-known fanzine, "Panelological Pleasures."

However, the most rewarding--and fascinating--"Golden Age" artist I had the fortune to encounter was not one whose name might be found in household chat. Richard Evelyn Buttram, A.K.A. "R. E. Butts," never attended any of those bygone "comic-cons." Nor did he receive any of the acclaim that even the least talented craftsman of 1940s panelology might have received, had he simply wandered into the rooms in which said "comic-con" was conducted.

I met Mr. Buttram whilst attending the 1969 Big Apple Comicon. It was my first trip to New York City. I was eager to take in all the sights. At age 22, my curiosity knew no bounds.

Having spent several hours in the sweaty confines of the dealer's rooms at the Big Apple event, I deemed it provident to wander outside and get some fresh air--the latter merely a turn of phrase in smoggy, grimy Gotham.

I strolled into the East Village--then a haven of "beatniks," "yippies" and bohemian artists. I had heard much about the "expresso pads" of the Village, and wanted to sample this "hip" beverage. Friends, it turned out to be plain old coffee--albeit served in a tiny cup!

It was good coffee, tho'. On a crisp autumn afternoon, as I squinted in the sunlight, I chanced upon an outdoor exhibition of paintings. Their creator was a tall, grey-haired man, wearing a striped sweatshirt and a derby hat, just like those worn by Hardy and Laurel in their screen comedy classics.

I had on hand a formidable stack of comic magazines--treasures newly acquired from the confines of the dealers' room. Said pamphlets caught the eye of the elderly painter. Atop the stack was the very issue of Amazing Mystery Funnies from which today's special selection is found.

"Lord God!" the artist sighed. "What memories that brings back!" He pointed to the comic magazine in question.

"Did you read this magazine when it was new?" I innocently asked.

"Read it? Hell, son, I drew for it!" He snatched the precious magazine from my hands and deftly paged through it. He then held up the "splash page" to "The Bullet." He cleared his throat. "Son, that's me. 'R. E. Butts.' That was my pen name for the funny books."

You'll appreciate that I found my heart in my throat. So suddenly, so unexpectedly--here was a "forgotten man" of the "funny book" era!

"You were a panelologist?" I asked, fighting an urge to stutter.

"Speak sense, son! I drew for the funnies! But that was 30 years ago... I've gotten into the fine art racket. Done OK by it, too."

At the time, I was preparing the first issue of my fan-zine, and still "at sea" for a cover feature. I was thunderstruck with a sudden gleaning: here was my interview subject--a man who worked "behind the scenes" and could "tell it like it was" for my curious readership!

"Sir," I blurted out, "might I interview you for my fanzine?"

"Interview?" His brow wrinkled with the effort of thought. "What's it pay?"

At the time, I was naive. It seemed apt, to me, that such talented creators, indeed, should receive pay in exchange for telling of their experiences in the panelological universe.

"Er--would fifty dollars be enough?"

Mr. Buttram's eyebrows appreciably raised. "Hmm... you'd better make it sixty."

I opened my wallet. There were four twenty-dollar bills within. This would seriously hamper my further involvement, as a buyer, in the Big Apple Comicon. But how many of my fellow "fans" could boast that they had bought, with their hard-earned money, a genuine slice of panelological history?

I agreed at once. Mr. Buttram invited me to interview him at his studio that evening at the unearthly hour of midnight! He wrote down his address and said he'd expect me there at the stroke of twelve.

As a token of good faith, I paid him the $60 in advance.

Friends, I was on Cloud Nine! I wandered back to the "con" when another thought struck like lightning. How in the heavens would I record the imminent interview for posterity? At the time, tape recorders were still in the realm of wealth. "Ordinary Joes" such as myself did not have such devices at their constant beck and call.

However, a friend at the "con" owed me both money and a favor. I collected on both.

His name was Wallace "Sparks" Spinkle. "Sparks," may he rest in peace, was a pioneer of panelological fandom. His fan-zines Realms of Tomorrow and Power Blast Phenomenon! set a standard for journalism and ethics seldom equalled, even today.

"Sparks" Spinkle had a portable reel-to-reel tape recorder. I borrowed it from him to conduct the interview. "Sparks" also repaid me 30 dollars he'd borrowed from me, in order to purchase a copy of Action Comics #1. I'd advised him against its purchase.

Talking horse sense, it seemed that one might do better to buy 30--or even 60--comic magazines, for that price, rather than put "all of one's eggs into the basket." "Sparks" was dead-set on acquiring this over-rated piece of panelology.

To my surprise, he'd turned around and resold it--within five minutes--for 50 dollars. P.T. Barnum was right, it seemed! "Sparks" had earned 20 dollars with no effort whatsoever.

I'm sure "Sparks" does cart-wheels in his grave when he thinks how much that comic magazine would fetch in these 21st century times!

To prepare for the interview, I read the story Mr. Buttram had indicated as his work. To put yourself in the frame of mind I shared, in the hours before my interview, here is said story:








You will admit that 'R. E. Butts' had a unique visual and textual panelology style. Indeed, there would be much to discuss. Here was a phantom figure of the dawn age of the comic magazine!

Midnight found me examining a dank basement apartment, fronted by a coal-black hallway. I heard things skitter in the bottomless dark around me. Finally, I found a door, and rapped against it.

"What?" a thick-sounding voice muttered from within.

I announced myself, and recapped our meeting, earlier that afternoon. "Oh yeah," the voice slurred.

A great number of locks slid, clicked and cracked. Finally, the door eased open, and a gentle, orange-hued light mingled with the jet-black of the hallway. I saw that those skittering things were rats! I was truly in the heart of the city.

Mr. Buttram invited me inside. His was a typical "artist's loft"--strewn with paintings, art supplies, underwear, cereal boxes, empty liquor bottles, and, in an eccentric touch, the near-deafening tick of a thousand wind-up alarm clocks.

Said clocks were everywhere--they blanketed every flat surface, and all were set to a different time! On a time-worn "hi fi," genuine "bee-bop" jazz music played in the background.

"D'you bring the money, son?" Mr. Buttram asked.

"But, sir, I paid you this afternoon--in full!"

His face tellingly reddened. "Yes, I recall that you did." He cleared space on a frayed, stained sofa-bed and invited me to sit.

I switched on the tape recorder, my heart beating in time with the myriad alarm clocks clucking and clittering all about me. I was about to conduct my first interview!

Here it is, as it appeared in my maiden effort of panelological commentary, Strange Oddysey #1, which saw print in early 1971.


"They Wanted Me To Draw That Way!"
"R. E. Butts" in the Dawn of Comic Magazines
interview by Mason J. Moray

"It paid the bills," says Richard E. Buttram, as he takes a "drag" from a green bottle of "night train," here in the dark heart of Gotham. The "it" referred to is panelology; the speaker, now a classically-trained artist of fine paintings, is likely unknown to you by his given name.

Try out "R. E. Butts" for size! Yes, this bohemian gentleman, sitting at midnight in his squalid "pad," is the man who created some of the earliest panelological presentations, primarly for the long-departed Centaur Press--launching pad of many a comic-magazine career.

When asked how he entered the panelological "scene," Buttram is modest. "I knew a guy. He knew a guy. It was like that. I needed work. My paintings weren't selling. I couldn't cut it as a magazine illustrator. I didn't have the discipline to hack it.

"I'd seen these 'funny books' around town. It seemed like kid's play to me. I figured, 'get in for a few months,' you know, crap out some stuff, sell it, and then get out of it. And that's exactly what I did."

And, thus, our interview began proper.

Do you have any remembrances of the halcyon days of panelology?

Huh?

What was it like to work in comic books in the late 1930s?

Aw, it was just a bunch of guys in a room, drawing and kidding around. It was something to do, you know...

What was your inspiration in creating The Bullet? Its panelological stylings are quite unorthodox, even for this pioneering period...

Kid, you need to talk English. I just made this crap up as I did it. "Fill seven pages," the editor told me. You heard of "Uncle Joe?"

No, sir. Who--

"Uncle Joe" Holstein. The biggest crap-slinger on Manhattan Island. All talk and no action! Just try and get him to put money in your hand! You'd have to be that magician guy. Oh, what was his name?

Zatara?

No.

Yarko the Great?

Huh? No! It doesn't matter. Nothing mattered, except for two things. Two... things. One: draw the crap. Whatever it is; it didn't matter. Just draw the crap. Two: Get the money. That was the hard part.

Thank God the war came on. The Merchant Marines paid a hell of a lot better than "Uncle Joe." I didn't mind getting shot at. I was making real money in the war!

I saw your exhibit of paintings today in the Eastern Village. Are all of those recent works?

Some of 'em. Some of 'em have been kicking around since the '50s. Tourists buy 'em, mostly. I've sold some to hotels.

What did you like most about working in comics?

The paycheck. When I got it.

What was the worst part of working in comics at the time?

The worst? I'll tell you the worst. You could be [expletive] Michael Anjelo. You could draw like a [expletive], paint the [expletive] Sisteen Chapel ceiling. But when you worked for the funnies, all that went out the window.

You bring that funny book with you?

Yes. Here it--

Yeah, just look at this. [points to several drawings on the page] They wanted me to draw that way!

I remember; I brought in this job to "Uncle Joe." He chewed on a piece of leather. I think it was part of a wallet. Always chewing on that damned thing.

"Uncle Joe" looked at my lead page. [points to drawing of a character's head on page one of story] "OK," he said, "I'll let you have that one. One good drawing. The rest of this--you gotta re-do it!"

Of course, I was shocked. "Re-do it? Why you [expletive]! This is good work!"

I'll never forget get. "Uncle Joe" chewed on that wallet piece, sucked on it, and put his finger tips together, like that game, this is the church, open the door and look at the people? You know that one?

No, sir.

Well, no matter. He patted those fat fingers back and forth. Back and forth. "We don't encourage our artists to draw well. We don't want our artists to slow down on that fancy stuff. We need to get these out the door quick."

Long story short--I had to re-draw all the faces--and do 'em badly! He made me sit in a closet and put Chinese White all over the good drawings. He stood over my shoulder. Anytime I started to draw well, he'd chuckle and say, "Uh uh uh! That's too good."

So this "Uncle Joe" wanted you to draw poorly?

That's the long and short of it!

Is that enough? What else you want to know?

What other features did you create for the comic magazines?

Oh, that was a long time ago. Let me think... [sighs] It all starts to blur together when you get to be my age, son...

Aw, hell. "Tack Dixon." That ring any bells?

No, sir.

"Tack Dixon." He was a prize-fighter who hunted cannibals in Africa. That was one. "Five Deuces;" that was an airplane feature. "Cochita of Laredo." She was a Mexican detective. Imagine that--a Mexican woman who's a dick!

Who were some of your favorite artists in pan-- er, in comics at the time?

Tell you the truth, son, I never even looked at the things. I just did my pages, took 'em in, and tried to tough it out 'til that fat [expletive] paid me off.

Then the war came on. I signed up before the last bombs had hit Pearl Harbor. I'd rather go to war than struggle on in this nonsense. That was the last I saw of comic books. Never looked back.

I see.

That's what I'd do if I were you, son. Turn your back on the whole sorry business. Learn a trade. Don't fool with this bunk. It's just a--

[Our interview was rudely interrupted by the simultaneous ringing of a hundred alarm clocks. Your correspondent nearly leaped out of his skin at that moment.]

Well, friends, that was the interview. It was nearly three in the morning when I shut off the tape recorder and gathered myself to leave.

I'll never forget what happened next. Mr. Buttram looked at me. "You know, it's nice of you to look me up, talk to me about this baloney. I don't mean to sound like an old grump."

He reached, without looking, to a stack of framed paintings that leaned against a wall. He grabbed two and insisted I take them. "I want you to feel like you got something good for your money."

"R. E. Butts" saw me to the door. I found myself alone on the eerily silent streets of the East Village, two oil paintings in my arms, along with "Sparks" Spinkle's tape recorder and the very comic magazine from which today's tale originated.

I still own those paintings today. They hang in our home. I took pictures of them so that I can share them with you today.


"Hat Lady" by R. E. Buttram, c. 1960

"Pretty Scenery" by R. E. Buttram, c. 1967

I never heard of, nor saw, "R. E. Butts" again. Each time I visited Gotham, I frequented the East Village, in the hopes of sighting this panelological legend. It was as if he never existed.

Yet, every day, when I pass by these paintings in my home, I'm reminded of this artist whose pioneering efforts helped to build a panelological empire. This post is dedicated to you, Mr. Richard Evelyn Buttram.

Your work was not in vain. Not in the realms of the Pantheon!

Until next time, I remain your humble friend and servant. Good day.