"The Black Orchid"-- and the stunning story of its creators, Albert and Florence Magarian, from the enigmatic Tops Comic Book

Friends,

Greetings and salutations! I seem doomed to begin these "posts" with an apology for my protracted absence. However, this time it is kustified.

I have been recovering from my "nasty spill" of late last year, while also working with efreveish intensity on my masterwork royale: The Golden Art of The Era Panelologic: 1937-1942. My original estimate of a trifling 1,000 pages now seems too modest. Indeed, this tome may well encompass 5,000 pages of fact, history and great comic book work from these six most golden years.

I trawl through a lifetime of research, interviews, doscuments and other facts to achieve this goal. It is my hope that this long-overdue book shall be taught in universities and other institutes of higher learning, and live long past my brief stay on this "mortal coil."

I am oft made keenly aware of material that falls beyond the scope of my "tome," but which still intrigues me, as it contains the essence of the art panelologic. Great works succeeded the "golden six" years of my book. Thus, I feel an urgency to share it here, while "the iron" is "hot."

In 1979, I acquired a most unusual comic book publication. So unique is its format that I had, indeed, forgotten I had it! It was stored, page by page, in a series of archival rice-paper envelopes, tucked in the middle of box W-3.

This book is the stuff of which dreams are made. There is a bit of intriguing history behind its publisher. The humbly named Consolidated Book Publishers were what one might wisely call a "journeyman press."

Their presses rolled night and day, printing everything from newspapers to banners to coloring books to restaurant menus. Their Apex Laminaster 2200 gave them the "edge" to succeed in printing any documents that needed protection, via a laminated cover.

By 1943, the comic book boom was duly noted by even the least likely sources. Due to "the war," comic magazines were the preferred reqding matter of our boys overseas. In their shell-shocked state, great work sof literature were beyond the grasp of "our fighting forces." Whereas, the immediacy, impact and power of the panelological page spoke directly to their needs and hopes.

Thus, Consolidated hoped to join the comic-book boom. It was seen as "the right thing to do," and a patriotic gesture of solidarity towards "our boys."

In-between a large run of laminated menus for a railroad line, they attempted to publish their first, fledgling effort in the comic magazine realm: Tops Comics. At a bonus 128-page size, the brick-like booklet would be shipped overseas and dropped, by parachute, into the theater of Pacific war. Copies, of course, would be sold "state-side" at news stands, but the idea was to give "the boys" a solid selection of thrills and laughs--the latter served up with a ream of "little moron jokes" and the detective spoof of "Dikky Dinkerton."

Due to a misunderstanding of the press operator, the entire run of Tops Comics was accidentally printed on laminated menu paper. Thus, one 128-page issue weighed some 14 pounds, and had a girth of nearly one foot! This was deemed unwise to ship overseas (altho' its laminate would have aptly protected it from the humidity and grime of the Padific Theater).

To make the matter worse, after the loss of revenue in waste from this printing mishap, newsdealers refused to carry the bulky, slippery product. One bundled "issue" broke loose in a Minneapolis hotel on a rainy afternoon. Its loose, laminated pages caused 11 slipping accidents, including one severe head trauma.

The resultant bad publicity ("Mother, 32, Whacks Noggin in Minn Hotel--Blames So-Called 'Comic Magazine' For Fall," read one national headline) temporarily derailed Consolidated Book Publishers. The pages languished in a dank warehouse until 1979, when Kurt Bolton discovered them and first distributed them to interested "fans." I was among the first to receive this parcel of musty, yellowing-but-cleanable comics history.

I pried one page apart, out of curiosity, and found that a perfectly-preserved printed page awaited beneath. I eventually separated all 128 pages from their time-worn plastic prisons. Since then, they have remained in their special envelopes, safe from sunlight or other damanging agents--and, until late last night, from my memory!

Most intriguing of the features accidentally printed on crisp cardstock, in a variety of color options, is "the Black Orchid," the creation of one of the most unique family teams in comicdom-- Albert and Florence Magarian. I shall tell their astounding tale after you have immersed yourself in the uniquely doom-laden, tense world of "The Black Orchid!"

Stunned, eh? I know well the feeling. Now, onto the matter of the creative team behind these stories. One would assume, from the credit of Albert and Florence Magarian, that these creators were husband and wife--rather like the Berenstain family of those charming children's books. Brace yourself for one of the weirdest stories in panelology.

Albert and Florence Magarian were Siamese twins!

According to this website, Siamese twins tend to be of the same gender. Given the endless quirks and quadrants of our DNA, it's no wonder that this roll of the genetic dice rendered a boy/girl co-joined birth. Albert and Florence were born in 1919 in the Bronx. From infancy, both children demonstrated an artistic bent. As one family story recounts, their uncle Farrell witnessed the tots each absorbed in a different creative action. While Albert doodled on the living room wall with a grease crayon, Margaret strained to play the keys of the family's out-of-tune spinet piano.

Due to a public outcry against Siamese twins in the 1920s, the Magarians were home-schooled, and seldom, if ever, left their home. In isolation, the brother and sister both turned to drawing. Each excelled in a different area. Margaret, the twin on the left (if viewing from their point of view) was a gifted draftswoman, with a sensitivity to contour and dimension. Albert, on the right, excelled at painting and fine-lined rendering.

If ever a team was literally born to create comic book material, it was the Magarians!

From 1939 to 1967, Albert and Florence Magarian created some 11,000 pages of comic book story and art. They fearlessly embraced all genres, and astounded editors with their elegant work--and, most impressively, with the speed in which they delivered finished stories.

Given an assignment by messenger, a script could be "turned about" in a matter of hours (if it were, say, a teenage humor piece) or days (if a more complex Western, war or historial tale).

The Magarians never met any of their employers. Their communication was by telegram and telephone. Farrell Safkarian, the afore-mentioned uncle, was interviwed by myself in 1981, and offered these revealing glimpses into a truly hidden life:

FS: They never left that two-bedroom apartment. Maybe once, in '52, when Albert had to have a root canal. The headaches got to them both, you see.

MM: Did you ever see them at work?

FS: (laughs) When DIDN'T they work? Night and day, they was at that [drawing] board. She sketched in the figures, you see, with her left hand. Albert had the pen and brush ready. He'd be finishing a drawing while she was still sketching it!

MM: Twas true teamwork, then.

FS: It had to be. They were like a married couple. Got on one another's nerves all the time. Albert smoked cigars. Margaret hated the smell. And she had a habit of humming the same tune, over and over, for hours at a time. Boy, would they yell! And fuss! The walls were splattered with ink, from Albert throwin' the bottles at Margaret. Only he could never hit her. She was too close. But those walls, boy. You could smell india Ink the minute you walked in there.

MM: Did you see them often?

FS: I was their errand boy! Got them groceries, went to the publisher's offices and got scripts. That was before they started to write their own stuff. And, of course, I took the big boards in for 'em.

MM: Boards?

FS: The pictures. They did 'em on these big papers. Looked like boards to me. All wrapped up. I don't know who wrapped 'em. But they were always wrapped in butcher paper and tied with twine. Really neat knots.

MM: What else did you do for them?

FS: Changed the radio stations. Albert loved the dramatic programs. I also went to see movies for 'em.

MM: Indeed?

FS: I'd see the picture, memorize the story, and tell 'em about it. I guess they wanted ideas for their comic books.

MM: What did you think of their work?

FS: (laughs) Aw, it was just for kids. I never looked at it. Was always surprised how well they got paid to do that stuff.

MM: Well, sir, there are many who declare this 'kid stuff' to be the thing of artistry.

FS: (laughs) There's one born every minute...

MM: Did Albert and Florence ever meet with their publishers?

FS: Nope. Never left that flat. They were afraid that if the world knew about 'em, bein' joined at the hip, that they'd lose their jobs. They spent their entire life in that apartment. Come spring and summer, I'd move their table by the window. When it got cold, we set it up near the radiator.

Albert was a sleepwalker...

MM: You don't say!

FS: I just did. He'd get up at night, walk around the rooms, out like a light. Margaret got used to it. She had me get her one of those miner's hats--you know, with the light on the top. At least she could read while Albert did his business. Then he'd get right back into bed like nothing happened. (laughs)

They were something else!

Indeed, their uncle's summation still proves apt. Albert and Florence Magarian, though they lived behind a curtain of shame, and distanced themselves from society, ironically helped influence the tastes of that tempting outside world. How they must have longed to join the throngs on the street beneath their window! How alluring must those gentle spring zephyrs have been! Yet they never dared expose themselves to the world.

Yet they did bear their souls through the medium of panelology. And for this, we remain ever thankful.

I am sorry not to have on offer any musings from my own personal life in this edition of the "bolg." My main priority is to present these forgotten works of the art panelologic. Perhaps I might best pursue a second "blog," strictly devoted to a diary of my daily comigs and goings. What think you?

Until next time, my comrades of the comic magazine!

The Tale of the Tail--I Am Back In Hospital! Plus "Atom Blake, the Boy Wizard" from "Wow Comics" #2

Friedns, it hab been far too long snice last we met. I wirte these words from a hospital bed! It is dififclut to type on my laptop. But try I shall to endeavor to achieve this goal. For you, my firndrs, are dear and near to me—tho’ I may nvevr meet you in person, we are brothers of the art panelologic!

I have been in room 343 of the Emberton Memroial Mecidal Center for two weeks now. And, no, dear reader, ‘twas not a bout of the gout, as they might quip. ‘Tis a most exotic ailment that afflicts me! I have a broken coccyx! You may well call this “The Tale of THe Tail!”

‘Twas a pleasant night in Novebmer… the air was mild and csirp, with the woodsy smell of the autumn season. Typically, Raphael mops the Diner on Thusrday nights. He has always done it—nveer having been asked, never having apparently voltuneered for the task. He does artful work with a mop, bucket and his “mezcla de mezcla especial”—in relatiy a blend of Comet, Clorox, Pine-Sol and parsley flakes. 

There—I have managed to ring for a nurse, and get this bed-table adjusted! What a difference this makes1 Now I shall try to be a more mindful tpyist. 

On this fateful Thursday, Raphael had to leave immediately upon closing—he referred, throughout the day, to a “special errand” and, to be sure, seemed pre-occupied. His heart was apparently not in his usually zestful role of maître d’ for Dorrie’s Diner. He merely waved in new visitors, as would a grade school crossing guard, and let them meander to any apparently open spot.

Among one such group were a party of toddlers, from a nearby daycare center. A pair of harried, frazzled young adults accompanied them. There was much talk of “an ice-cream treat,” the mere mentoin of which whipped this wee group into a frenzy.

One child had a mesh sack filled with those “Hot Wheel” cars that have been so polupar for so many years. His sole focus was on these tiny stylized autos. An endless array of motor sounds—all quite convincing—issued forth from his young lungs. Several times, I cringed in anticipation of the sudden impact of a truck into the vulnerable North Wing of the Diner, which faces a very busy, frantic State Road.

Much ice cream was messily consumed, and the sated babes bobbled out the door. The dnier suddenly seemed quiet—as they say in old war movies, “a little too quiet.”

Shortly thereafter, patrons complained of “that sticky floor.” One surprised elder gentleman tapped me on the shoulder several times, to get my attention, then told me. “Almost lost my shoe. Something should be done, sir. Something should be done!”

As foot-traffic commenced, during the dinner hour, the floor became more of a hazard. Thursday nights the Diner tupically entertains a group of Whist players. They bring their own cards, a great deal of boisterous good spirit, and several bags of pistachio nuts, still in their sturdy shells. 

Their card games are “fast and furious,” and tend to shoo other customers out. Fortnately, these Whist-ers have big appetites, mostly for desserts, and tend to run up a sizable bill at night’s end. They kept Raphael “hopping” with constant requests for coffee refills, crème brulee re-orders, and such.

The slapping of the cards, the crackling of nut shells, and the constant murmur of their voices has become a Diner ritual on Thursdays. I was, truth told, anxious for the day to end.  I had a “four day weekend” commencing on that Friday, and was eager to spend some “quality time” at the “New Pantheon,” the better to reconnect with you kind friends and share some four-color jewels from the “vault.”

In such a mood, I tend to daydream, and disconnect from the humdrum world around me. I was lost in a reverie of my discovery of a significant new Fox Features title, Hi-Tension Comics (which, alas, does not exist). Such “visions” are fairly common to me, and inevitably result in confusion and disappointment, as I rifle through my archives in the “Pantheon” only to realize the title I seek is not in this plane of reality.

You see, I have my spiritual side, too! Are we not all complex beings?

Finally, the Whist fest came to an end. The bill was paid, and the entourage of “gamers” went to their abodes to dream of another Thursday. Upon their departure, I discovered a startling admixture of expended nut shells and the crispy, brittle candy-like toppings of crème burlee in small mounds on the floor.

Coffee and whipped cream spills aggravated this catastrophe. On top of the down-trodden, adhesive remnants of the ice-cream, from earlier that day, the floor was a disaster area.

As I pondered this dire situation, Raphael bid me a cheerful goodnight. He was dressed in a 1940s style pin-stripe suit, complete with fedora. In one hand he carried a Whitman’s Sampler. In the other, a well-worn suitcase. “See you soon amigo!” he cried with delight as he “hit the road.”

The accountancy of the day’s “take” was a consumptive nightmare that even I, the seasoned CPA, could barely fathom. One hour of intense “number crunching” and the receipts were tallied, and the books balanced. At last I could retire for the day!

Then I realized the floor must be attended to!

With a deep sigh, I plodded into the back storeroom. I wheeled out the mop bucket, and fashioned my own blend of Comet, Clorox and Pine-Sol. I could not find a container of parsley flakes, so I substituted some ground nutmeg.

Before the mopping proper could commence, I had to sweep, chisel and otherwise bodily remove the more three-dimensonal aspects of the floor’s contents. My friends, those pistachio shells were almost ankle-high under the table! I had to use a metal dustpan to chip away at the brulee accumulation. I must have swept up 100,000 expended nut shells that night… which stressed my lower back critically, preparing me for my incumbent calamity.

Having removed the worst of the debris, the mopping wsa a mere formality. It took several “passes” to render the floor walkable and clean. The pungent blend of cleaning products tore at my nostrils. Sweat beaded on my weary brow. And then, finally, the dire task was done!

Oh, how weary I was. I am no spring chicken! My lower back creaked as I stood up. I wheeled the mop bucket to the darkest recesses of the backroom, and left it for Katrice to empty. (She will empty any open container of liquid she encounters, as I have discovered when lifting a once-full mug of coffee to my lips, only to find its contents gone.)

I wiped my brow, gathered myself together, and doused the Diner’s lights. The deposit could wait ‘til the morning!

Then, as I approached the door, my right foot met with one of those accursed “How Wheels” cars. Zip! I left the ground. I scrambled to regain control of my footing. Then my left foot encountered a pistachio nut, forgotten from the Whist players! Zoom! Again I lunged, my right foot once again connecting with the “Hot Wheels” toy. Down went McGinty—er, Moray! 

I fell with a thud on my tail-bone. The impact loosened a flock of laminated Diner menus. These rained upon my head in a dull shower.

Oddly, I felt no pain. Rather, a curious relief washed over me. I was off my feet. I stared up at the darkened ceiling, and then thought it best to close my eyes, to regain my composure for the trip home…

“Hey, fella,” a coarse voice said. Something hard tapped at my shoe. “Let’s see some ID, fella.”

I had dozed! I woke with anxiety, and saw a policeman hovering above me. “Wh-where am I…”

“Better come with me and sleep it off, fella…”

“I beg your pardon! I am the owner—rather, co-owner—of this establishment. If you’ll permit me to rise to my feet…”

And then, dear reader, my heartache (or backache!) began. As Officer Rutledge, the fellow who tapped my shoe and roused me, later informed me, I fainted as I attempted to stand tall. An ambulance was called, and I rushed to Emberton Memorial.

I was informed that I had broken an un-needed bone—that of the coccyx, or the “tail bone.” Like the appendix, there is not need for it in our daily lives, and yet it has persisted throughout time in our bodies. Curious thing, science!

The doctor said that I would be bed-ridden for at least a fortnight. My legs were slightly elevated, to reduce pressure to the broken coccyx, and a special pillow (which was changed five times a day) further cushioned the bruised bone, the better to speed its healing. My lower back was encased in a curious lattice-work of plaster, medical tape and some type of medical plastic.

Needless to say, I was to enjoy a much longer holiday than anticipated!

My first visitor was my compadre in things panelological, “Sparks” Spinkle. He looked woebegone. “Back in the saddle again, eh, Mace?” he said with a weak grin.

“I’m not dying, I assure you. Wipe that sad look off your face,” I said with good cheer. “I may be trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, but I’m in good spirits overall.”

We talked, just chit-chat between friends, and in the course of our meanderings I mentioned my desire to spend some serious time at the “New Pantheon,” studying the art of panelology and perhaps making some notes towards my forthcoming encyclopedic history of the Golden Age of the American comic magazine. (But more on that later.)

“Uh huh,” “Sparks” repeated, nodding gravely. “Mm hm.” He held  his chin in his hand, deep in thought. 

“Mace, where are your keys?”

“Wherever my personal belonging are. I awoke in this room. I assume they were taken care of…”

As I spoke, “Sparks” opened drawers and cabinets. I finally heard a muffled “A-ha!” and a muted jingle. 

Then, a clunk as he dropped the keys. Then another jingle, another clunk, and some soft cursing. “Slippery fellas!”

“Sparks” looked sheepish. “Long story short. You tell me what comics you wanna study; me an’ Raphael will go an’ get ‘em an’ bring ‘em here for ya!”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that…”

“I… in… SIST!” was my friend’s fervent reply.

Once “Sparks” has an idea in his head, there is no stoppage of it. One might better hope to contain a tsunami in a paper cup. Calmly, I explained that this room had limited space, and that much leeway must be given for the various doctors, aides and nurses to do their important work. Thus, I limited him to one long-box. 

At random, I chose R-11. I could not recall its contents precisely, so it would be a delight to peruse its 100 bagged and boarded treasures.

“Better write that one down, Mace…”

“I have no pen or pencil. R-11. Just remember that. R-11.”

“R-11… R-11…” “Sparks” wandered out of the room. “Be back soon,” he said in the hallway.

As I am wont to do when in bed, I dozed off. How deep my sleep was, I cannot fathom. A familiar scent roused me from the arms of Morpheus. So rich, so pungent, such a warm and woodsy aroma…

Vintage pulp paper! Like a child on Christmas morn, I opened my eyes…

The room was filling to capacity with choice gems from my archives. Several long-boxes dominated the room, plus armfuls of loose issues, all protected by their museum-quality bags and boards.

“Forgot what box you wanted, Mace, so we brought ya a whole bunch. Take your pick.”

“Si, Senor Mason, Haga su elección!” Raphael grinned from behind a stack of vintage treasures. A few of them slipped off the pile and scuddered towards the floor. I grimaced as would a man in pain.

“Gentlemen, I asked for one long box. That is all this room will accommodate.”

“Sorry, Mace, I kinda got carried away.” A male nurse entered the room, assessed the labyrinth of panelology, and became instantly indignant. “What’s all this s***?” he cried.

“It shall be cleared out, sir, it shall be cleared out.” To “Sparks” and Raphael, I quietly, kindly stated: “Leave one long box. Please return everything else to the Pantheon. I thank you for your kind effort.”

“Aw…” “Sparks” looked deflated. “Well, which box, Mace? It’s your shootin’ match.”

“Any box will do. I am not particular. That one there,” I said, pointing to a longbox situated within arm’s reach of my bed.

“Hokey dokey,” “Sparks” said with great reluctance. “But don’t come cryin’ to me when you get bored…”

“Ay, que lastima,” Raphael sighed under his breath. He regathered the loose stack of magazines and left the room.

I heard a myriad of plop-plop-plop sounds in the hallway. Following them was the skid and clank of medical equipment. Voices of confusion filled the corridor. Finally, a sheepish “Sparks” re-entered my room. “We got a casualty, Mace.” He held up a mangled issue of Jughead, circa 1953. “She’s still intact, just a little… dented.”

“No great loss,” I assured him.

The remainder of my treasures were carefully removed from the room. I cannot assess the safety of their journey back to the vault. I am, understandably, somewhat anxious to be well again, so that I may assure myself they did not suffer the fate of that lone Jughead.

It took my friends three trips to successfully remove the excess magazines. It occured to me that my scanner might prove a helpful tool while I rested in thsi room. Thus, before their third trip, I diligently requested that my scanning device (and power cords) be brought to my room. Fortunately, the alert Raphael "grakked" my request and assured me all components would be imported to my bedside.

Thus, I am able to share a seldom-seen treasure from a most unlikely source.

I am not an enthusiast of the Fawcett comic magazines. Their assembly-line production, to my eyes, renders them lifeless and moot. But in the earliest issues of their various flagship titles, some brave souls dared to buck the system and produce tales of fantasy on their own.

Such a rare gem is Russell G. Gorson's "Atom Blake, the Boy Wizard." seldom have such complex motifs of science fiction been so lovingly presented within borders and balloons. Please take time to read this story. I will, of course, have some "commentary" on this unique tale.

What, upon first reading, seems merely a knockabout boy's adventure, is, in fact, a deeply felt, deeply encoded parable of the suffering of the Albanian peoples during the first World War. Russell G. Gorson was the pen-name of Fisnik Gazmend, a refugee from that forbidding regoin. 

During the first War, many Albanians were imprisoned by the Kaiser's army, and forced to abandon their homes and careers to perform manual labor. Young Gazmend and his family, former stock-brokers of considerable wealth, were stripped of their status and clothes and put to work as miners. 

The subterranean caves in which they worked are remarkably realized as the wastes of the planet Mercury in this story. To a child of wealth, suddenly removed from his home and given a pick-ax, Hessians barking foreign commands to him, he might as well have been on Mercury!

Gazmend was separated from his parents, whom he assumed he might never see again. This trauma resonates through all his panelological work. It is, one might say, his central theme. Gazmend escaped Albania, was rescued by British troops, and eventually obtained passage on a boat to America. 

Once in our country, Gazmend began to realize his destiny as a comic book creator. Of course, he would have to wait until the late 1930s to ply his craft. In the meantime, he found work as a sign-painter, a roofer, a trainer of gazelles and as a math teacher.

Like many refugees of Europe, he sensed the threat of the Second World War, and was compelled to warn young readers of the fate he suffered. His serious autobiographical accounts were shunned by New York publishers. Gazmend was seriously "ahead of the curve ball" in this regard.

Harry Hornfeld, an assistant editor at Fawcett, liked Gazmend's work, knew of his back story, and wanted to help. "Change them Krauts to monsters, an' you'll have somethin' we can publish" was his sage advice.

Gazmend redrew a portion of his 650-page autobiographical story, Jeta ime i mjerimit të pafund ("My Life Of Unending Misery") as the first installment of "Atom Blake." It was immediately accepted for a new Fawcett title, Wow Comics. Later installments held less of his life's story, and more of stock fantasy elements.

Gazmend patiently waited out the war, and in 1947 he was able to return to his homeland. Remarkably, his parents were still alive and in good health. Jeta ime i mjerimit të pafund was still in Gazmend's possession, but it found no publishers. Its images held too many sitll-raw memories for the Albanian peoples.

Sadly, this early masterpiece of autobiographical comic book work seems to be lost. Perhaps it shall surface someday in an Albanian attic. It is not known what became of Gazmend upon his return to the homeland. One hopes--dearly--that he had a happy life, even though under the iron fist of Communist rule.

***

You will recall that, earlier in this missive, I dropped something of a "bomb shell." Yes, friends, I am at work on a 1000-page definitive critical overview and history of the Golden Era of The Art Panelologic: 1937-1942. (That is, indeed, the working title of this tome.) This book shall be my legacy, as it will contan the fruits of my many years of research and insight. I hope it shall be finished in the next few months. 

I am eager to be released from the hospital so that I might begin work on this volume in earnest. The constant beeps, clicks and hisses of this room are mightily distracting.

If Dcotor Milligan's estimate is correct, I should be home in time for Christmas. I hope to end the year with a rousing Yuletide treat, as has become a tradition of kind on this bolg. Until then, rest well, friends, and watch your coccyx!

Travels Galore--plus "The Eye," by two different artists, from the same issue of Detective Eye comics, 1940

Salutations, friends, neighbors and countrymen! I have returned from an extensive tour of our fine continent—almost from sea to sea!

‘Twas a taxing odyssey, at times, but scarcely was it less than rewariding. My first voyage you read of last time on this blog. My father and I took a “road trip,” the better to spend some “quality” time as “father and son” together. Dad, though of advanced years and diminished hearing, is as robust as ever. And, friends, he requires no amplification. Seldom has a human being been gifted with such a resounding thorax, such a majestic sound-box, as dear old “Dad.”

Dorrie wisely insisted I purchase some “Noize-Off” industrial-strength ear plugs. This was perhaps the best buy I’ve made since my bargain win of the rare Our Flag Comics #1 on eBay. I seldom brag, but I must “toot my honr” here… I won said purchase for a mere 19.43! the other Bidders were clearly “sleeping at the wheel” on that day.

But I digress. These flesh-colored ear devices were alleged, on the plastic sack in which they are sold, to “slaughter unwanted noize!” I suppose there is some significant distinction between “noise” with an s and “noize” with a z. Regardless, the plugs helped tone down the volume on “Pops” to a level of normal, courteous conversation. The down side—and is there not always one, friends?—was that they also greatly reduced other sounds, such as the horns and screeching brakes of oncoming motorists.

It took such intense concentration to focus on my father’s now-muffled voice that I seldom heard the “tells” of my fellow travelers. We wound up in a ditch, to my everlasting chagrin, outside of Wheeling, West Virginia. The “Prius” was wedged at about a 60 degree angle for a little over an hour, as the AAA service was exceptionally slow to respond to my distress call. (Thank heavens I had charged the cellular phone sufficiently!)

Why, you may ask, were we outside of Wheeling, West Virginia? Dear old “dad” wished to travel down “memory lane” on our s pecial father-son voyage. As he put it:

“BE NICE TO SEE SOME OF MY OLD STOMPING GROUNDS ONE MORE TIME! YOU KNOW, MACE, I’M NOT EXACTLY A SPRING CHICKEN ANY MORE! NO, SIR. GETTING ON IN YEARS!”

 I’d had “Pop” prepare a “top ten” list of places from his past he most wished to see. (With the stipulation that these spots remain close to the Eastern seaboard, and be no more than two days’ drive inland.) I scanned in his list, and share it with you now:

Seven of his choices no longer existed. Honey’s Bowling Den was shuttered in 1981. In its place was a small correctional facility! “Dad” chuckled at the inherent irony. “BET THEY JUST PUT BARS ON THE WINDOWS AND PAINTED THE THING GRAY,” he commented. “THERE WAS SOME SHADY TYPES USED TO POP IN THAT PLACE.”

I suggested the site of the IBM plant, where he spent a significant chunk of his working career, but he demurred. “SEEN ENOUGH OF THAT SPOT TO LAST ME A WHILE. STILL REMEMBER THE TREES AND SHRUBS. THE CANDY MACHINE ON THE FOURTH FLOOR. NOPE, SEEN ENOUGH OF THAT SPOT, SON!”

“1767 Fletcher Lane” was still standing, and brought back a flash of forgotten memory. This was the house where I was born! We lived there until I was five, and I only recognized it from its appearance as a backdrop to some home movies and blurry snapshots of that era. “SHE’S STILL STANDING PROUD,” my “pater” commented. “WONDER IF THE CRAPPER STILL HISSES FOR AN HOUR AFTER YOU FLUSH ‘ER?”

I wittily suggested that perhaps we might stop to check. “SAY, THAT’S A GOOD IDEA, MACE!” my father said. 20 minutes of curbside debate ensued; I on the “don’t knock on the door and ask to visit the restroom” side, and he holding the “WHAT THE HECK? CAN’T HURT TO ASK” position.

You might guess which side won out. The elderly widow was perhaps startled to see these two road-weary figures at her door. My father introduced himself as “A FELLA WHO USED TO LIVE HERE, ROUND ABOUT 1950, ’51.” The woman kindly invited us in. For all she knew, we might have been escaped lunatics, or encyclopedia salesmen!

“JUST GONNA VISIT THE HEAD FOR A SEC,” my father said. The woman held her hands over her ears and winced at my father’s volume. She asked me to sit with her in the living room. After a minute, a great flush issued from the rest room, followed by a minute of metallic jiggling. An audible, rumbling hiss echoed from the back hall. Shortly, my father returned, and joined us in the living room.

“YEP,” he finally said. “STILL GOT A TENDENCY TO RUN FOR A SPELL. YOU MIGHT WANT TO GET THAT LOOKED AT SOMETIME.”

The woman uncovered her ears. She appeared a bit disoriented. “Y-yes, I reckon I will…”

I explained (in a normal tone of voice) the nature of our trip, and that this was my first home. She brightened considerably. “Well then, you shall have lunch here, just as you once did.” Despite my polite protestations, she went into the kitchen. She returned shortly with a pile of olive loaf and pimento loaf sandwiches, spread with Durkee’s Special Sauce, and a pot of weak but welcome coffee.

As we dined, I attempted to control the conversation, the better to spare our elderly host’s ear drums. But “dad” had many questions. “HANK LEVINE STILL LIVE NEXT DOOR?... DOES THAT PAPER BOY STILL THROW THE DURNED SUNDAY PAPER ON THE ROOF?...CAN YOU STILL HEAR BERT JENKINS SNORE?”—and so on. All these people were, of course, long gone, and the questions simply bewildered the poor woman.

Finally, she cleared her throat. “W-well, I’ve got my shows to watch.” She interlaced her fingers, as if to pray, and smiled weakly but hopefully at us.

“THINK SHE WANTS US TO VAMOOSE,” my father said.

On that ear-splitting note, we exited my first abode, and returned to the road.

‘Twas good that only three of these places still existed. Elsewise, our week-long foray might have lasted a month. I was scheduled to travel to the Pacific Northwest with Dorrie, to attend a series of independent restaurateur seminars in Portland, Oregon, Seattle, Washington and Boise, Idaho. I attended solely out of spousal support. Those endless talks invited Morpheus mightily! Alas, the insistent elbowings of my "lady" assured that my eyes would remain open throughout these calcifying "seminars."

While in Seattle, I responded to an invitation sent months ago by John Gill, who is a fellow “blogger” with a site called “The Trick Coin.” I saw nothing about numismatics anywhere on his “blog,” but it is nonetheless worth a visit or two. (I hope this "linker" will work for you! If not, please let me know.)

John also creates a “pog-cast” for the Internet. Apparently it is some sort of interview program. That was the basis of his invitation.

While Dorrie attended a recipe seminar at the downtown “W” hotel, I visited Mr. Gull’s humble abode, which is surrounded by hospitals and roaring ambulances. Amidst this sonic chaos, I was interviewed for his “pog-cast.” We spoke mainly of my “blog” and of my accomplishments as a panelologist. If you have a few moments, and wish to hear me speak, please visit “The Trick Coin” where the entire program is archived.

And, when you listen, friends, worry not! None of those sirens were to do with Dorrie or the seminar, which passed quite peacefully and in a good spirit of democracy.

Dorrie returned from the seminars abuzz with new ideas for the Diner. She had a notion to christen the northeast sector as “Peking Corner,” and serve Asian cuisine there, and there only.

It is night-impossible to dissuade "the little missus" from an idea, once her mind is set. I tried to suggest that having one distant corner of our diner devoted to Asian fare might puzzle our elderly regular customers. The "sit where you want" policy we have strived to create would be shattered by this small change.

As  is, the idea is "on hold" while a possible menu is prepared. Perhaps the idea will just whisk away, as do many of "the wife"'s bolder notions. Time will tell.

I am no fan of air travel! The seats are painfully uncomfortable, and my ears are ill-prepared to withstand the pressure changes of the climate-controlled cabin. 'Tis fine to be back on terra firma, in the places I know and love.

And, of course, in the proximity of the New Pantheon, with its stockpile of treasures. On a brief visit, to check the smell of the place (pickle and chip scents gone; blueberry Febreze scent rather overwhelming) I opened an archival box, closed my eyes, and reached in. This fabulous artifact was my reward:

This fascinating publication boasts several worthy features, but 'tis a unique twist given its titular character that comprises this post. "The Eye" is among the most godlike of the early panelological creations. Indeed, there is a solemn religious aspect to the feature. The "Eye" is simply that--a floating, disembodied (and rather angry looking) ocular orb. Its mission  is the elimination of evil-doing.

Since it is an eye, and cannot operate machinery, ring doorbells, write letters, et al, "The Eye" must seek  out the aid of corporeal individuals--"ordinary Joes" such as you or I. 'Twas an eerie, unusual notion for a panelological figure.

In a fittingly peculiar twist, two different writer-artists helmed "The Eye"-- creator Frank Thomas and one Mark Schneider. There is, as usual, a fascinating (if somewhat tragic) story behind why these two men presented their differing takes on the "Eye," under the same covers of a comic magazine. I shall relate this after you absorb these two stories. The first is Schneider's; the second, Thomas'.

There are, in fact, TWO episodes of "The Eye" by Frank Thomas in this magazine. I have selected the second, and best, of these efforts:

As is immediately evident, the styles of "Mark Schneider" and Frank Thomas are significantly different. Each aspect of the panelological art--from lettering to the "spotting of blacks" (and I see many throughout both stories) could not be different.

Brace yourself--these two stories were created by the same man!

Frank Thomas, throughout his long career in comic magazines, was certainly a "workaholic." He lived to put pen and brush to illustration board, and to plot his many panelological tales, which included "cartoon critter" exploits for various Dell titles and several ventures into the costumed-hero genre.

In his waking life, Thomas was driven to succeed, although often frustrated by his limitations as a draftsman. He tried hard to imitate the realism of modern artists such as Milton Caniff and Alex Ramyond, but could only create a passable imitation. Thomas' real skill lay in creating softer, more "cartoony" characters. The hard edges of comics realism were seemingly not for him!

But at night, another personality emerged. Thomas was a chronic sleep-walker, and had been so since his childhood. So used was he to his regular noctural excursions that neither he, nor his family, friends and loved ones, gave it a second thought.

If the waking Frank Thomas was a "workaholic," his sleepy-time alter-ego was a "workamaniac," if I may coin a new word. "Mark Schneider," as this alter-ego called himself, was a more accomplished cartoonist, and a devil-may-care jack of all trades. "Schneider" would tune neighbors' cars, paint their houses, fix their roofs, build fences and chicken coops for them--and, if reports are to be believed, "Schneider" once installed a 20-foot flagpole, weighing over 200 pounds, and flying the flag of Prussia, in a distant neighbor's back yard!

When not creating home improvements, or flying a Piper Cub airplane, "Schneider" joined his waking self's love of the comics medium. As Thomas said in a 1965 interview:


I had no idea this was going on. I always woke up, you know, feeling tired. Saw the doctor many times. He couldn't come up with an answer. And the funny thing--I'd find these "Eye" stories on the front seat of my car. Had a '39 Chrysler Royal at the time. Never could tell when these things would show up. A whole story, penciled, inked and lettered! I never met this Schneider fellow. Assumed it was the editor's doings. It wasn't until I underwent hypnosis that I learned this Schneider character was me! I wish I could have collected his paychecks for these darn stories--"he" sure worked hard on 'em!

Hypnosis cured Thomas of this nocturnal double-life in 1955. From then on, Thomas religiously slept 10 hours a night, and continued his panelological career full-speed.

From that same interview, here are his thoughts on "The Eye:"

I remembered a saying my mother had. She'd tell me to always be good, because somewhere, an eye was watching me. I was inclined to be a bit of a rascal--always getting into the cookies--and this was her way to keep me in line. I used to lay up nights, scared to death of that eye. Thinking, 'I bet he's looking at me right now. I wonder what he thinks of me.'


Well, as I grew older, I forgot about this business, but I still had this feeling that something was going on while I slept. And that, of course, was this Schneider fellow, who I was at night. Boy, could that fellow draw! 


He actually came up with the concept for "The Eye." He left the first story on the seat of my Royal, wrapped in red ribbon, with the card attached that read "From A Friend." His idea was really good--and, boy, did it scare the hide off of me, when I remembered the story my mother used to tell me. I figured, 'if this scared me when I was boy, I'll bet it'll excite the children of today!' 

And I was right. "The Eye" was a big hit. I had to drop it when [Oskar] Lebeck hired me at Western. I tried to revive it for some of his titles, but it wasn't the same. And I was happier doing the bee series. Those were nice little stories for a change.

"The bee series" is Thomas' long-running "Billy and Bonnie Bee," which did indeed delight children for several years, and remains among the high points of the "cartoon critter" genre.

"Mark Schneider" illustrated some other comic magazine features before he disappeared from the panelological realm in the mid-1940s. It appears that "Schneider" wrote medical journals, pulp detective thrillers, and instruction manuals until his official hypnosis-cessation in 1955. His vanishment from comics art was a loss to the genre,

Well, this has proved an unusually long posting for me. I confess I'm tired. The couch--and a nap--beckons. I trust that I've no "Mark Schneider" to run colossal errands while I sleep! May your rest be free of highly active alter-egos as well, my friends!