PANELOLOGICAL PANTHEON

Belated But Sincere Salutations for 2012! Featuring "Zardi- The Eternal Man!" From Amazing-Man Comics 16!

2012-01-20T10:31:00.000-08:00

Friends, comrades, amigos--'tis richly satifsying to be at the keyboard, to construct a new blog post for your edification and enjoyment!

2011 is gone--nay, these 20 days it's been dead and buried. Who knows what 2012 shall bring? Feast? Famine? Bloodshed? Peace? Only the universe knows for sure... and she seldom warns us in advance!

Little has changed here, since my last bolg posting in November. The "11" dis-assembled the week before Christmas. Apparently, the lure of clean American socks and underwear, of fresh-baked holiday dinners and doting grandparents, was enough to break up this band of scruffy protesters.

Only one remained here--a chipper but funny-smelling lad named Jeffrey, whom the Diner has hired as a dishwasher. He is industrious, and of good spirits, but there is a certain vacancy to his presence. I've tried to engage him in conversation many times, but the trail of thought peters out. Soon, in mid-sentence, Jeffrey drops the thread and returns to his dish duties. He hums and hums as he washes our plates and cutlery. I suppose he is happy! Well, more power to him if this is so. If simple suds and hot water, the clanking of china and the tingle of "eatin' irons" is sufficient to please him, then he, i n the words of Hemran's Hermits, is "into something good."

A certain complacency has settled in with the New Year. In our biggest news item: Bradley Kolger is no longer a resident of our home. He was quietly but firmly ousted two weeks ago.As you no doubt had intuited, his presence grated on Dorrie something fierce. Truth told, he had "burned his britches" with even "Sparks" Spinkle by the end of his residency.

Mr. Kolger grew fatter and lazier with each passing day. Tell-tale signs were rampant. His lack of clothing, for example. He digressed from simple attire to boxer-shorts to, finally, a ragged beach towel, which he wore like a sarong. Bathing was a rare event in his life, as were other aspects of civilized grooming.

The "capper" was his hearing of a TV commercial which featured the "la la la" refrain of the Beatles song "Hi Jude." Mr. Kolger took to that sing-song cadence like a drunken lark. At all hours, day and night, he might belt out several choruses of just the "la la la" interval of said song.

I have described Mr. Kolger's unfortunate tendency of "banjo-humming." "Hi Jude" was subject to that rather unique--and grating--interpretation as well. That was, as they say, the needle that broke the camel's eye! Dorrie, her much-needed sleep broken by this "humming," bolted from bed and stoermd down the hall to Kolger's lair. I heard the following--for I dared not take part of the scene...

DORRIE: OK, buster!
KOLGER: (banjo-humming)--Hunh?
DORRIE: Pants.... on... NOW!
KOLGER: Do what?
DORRIE: Get. Dressed. And. Leave. This. House.
(silence)
DORRIE: Now.
KOLGER: But it's after midnight, lady...
DORRIE: Now.
KOLGER: You wouldn't throw a senior citizen out on the streets, would you?
DORRIE: (deep sigh) In the morning, then. But. No. More. Humming. Go. To. Sleep!
KOLGER: You don't have to be rude about it...
(door slams; footsteps storm towards bedroom; I feign deep sleep as "the missus" crawls under the covers)

The next morning, Mr. Kolger was driven to a local senior citizen center and signed up for free lodging there. I supoose it was the right thing to do. Mr. Kolger had proven something of a let-down. How I'd hoped that his memories would provide me with a wealth of panelological data!

Alas, his accurate remembrances were few and far between. I had the sneaking feeling he was just inventing stories to humor me. Among his more spurious claims was that artist Bill Everett was, in reality, two spinster sisters who lived in rural Minnesota! Having met Mr. Everett at a comic book convention, "back in the day," I can attest that he was neither female nor two people--just one hard-working man.

I last saw Mr. Kolger posing as Santa Claus, ringing a bell in front of a ShopWay store. It was two weeks after Christmas, but I suppose a man dressed as St. Nick can summon a coin or two from a forgetful soul here and there.

Before his ousting, Mr. Kolger did, to his credit, remind me of one of the forgotten genuises of what I call the Age Prime Panelological (1936-1942). "Steve Wardell. There was a storyteller," he said.

"I'm not aware of a Steve Wardell," I said. "Elaborate, please."

"Steve was an older guy. Looked like one of those photographs of characters from the Civil War. Had a white beard. Wore a string bow tie. Looked like a Kentucky colonel. He brought in a couple of stories while I was still in comics. He did some series about an old man who could become young again. It was great stuff."

I was sure Mr. Kolger was up to more of his spurios trickery. Later, in conference with "Sparks" Spinkle, we made the connection. "Sparks" sat bolt upright from a deep nap. "Mace! We gotta go to the Pantheon... now!"

Silently, we shoed ourselves and hopped in the Pruis. "Prince of Zanzibar," "Sparks" said, more to himself than to myself. "Something about Eternity Man..."

"Sparks" raced to the door of the New Pantheon and was clearly itching to get inside. He did the nervous dance of a man waiting in line for a restroom after several quick beers. I unlocked the door. "Sparks" made a bee-line for box D11. He lowered it to the floor and squatted beside it.

I saw a colorful flash of covers of the beloved Centaur title Amazing-Man Comics. Among my most cherished possessions is a complete run of this seminal title, which featured stunning achievements of the Age Prime Panelological.

"Sparks" skilfully leafed through issue after issue, his movements adroit, and respectful to the aging pulp paper. Finally, he cried "Ah, HA!" and stood, again bolt upright. "Maceroony, this is IT! Ol' towel-boy was right!"

We read the story you are about to experience in aweful silence. 'Tis the way I recommend that you, dear friend, absorb this masterful piece of the art panelological:

This rousing saga is dedicated to those among us who are over the age of 60. How bittersweet the concept of "Zardi" is to us in the autumn of our years! Imagine--being able to summon the vitality of lost youth with one swish of a magic cape!

Oh, to be spared the back aches, the arthritis, the eczema of advanced years! 'Tis a fantasy far more appealing than that of "Superman," "Captain Marvel" or even "Ibis the Invincible."

And, to quote my compadre, Mr. Spinkles: "Whillikers, could this guy tell a story! Wow!"

Wardell's blend of fantasy and stunning realism is stunning. For example. witness the marvelously true-to-life sequence, on page two of the tale, in which Zardi, despite the magic powers at his disposal, chooses to call directory information to secure information about a car's owner! This, from a man who can change his age, be invisible, and cast other phantasmagoric incantations! 'Tis just what I would do, were I Zardi!

Witness, as well, the poweful symbolism of the villains' attempts to turn living flesh into immovable stone! This, once again, deeply resonates with this particular senior citizen. Many mornings, I feel as though I've been tainted with Kali's treacherous brush!

"This story inspires me," "Sparks" told me, in strictest confidence, later that evening. "It's time a certain senior citizen crime-fighter went back on the job. There are evils--misjustices--all around us. Things it takes a masked avenger to repair!"

Thus, once again, I am the chaperone of "Super-Senior," as he seraches out crime on the timid streets of our fair city. We have accosted one litterer and two loiterers. "Sparks" takes great pride in each wrong righted. I am thankful for the excellent mileage of the Prius, and that a nightly 11:30 PM rerun of "The Life of Riley" provides a strong structure to our nightly "crime patrol."

I've become quite fond of Tom D'Andrea's laconic portrayal of Riley's next-door neighbor, Gillis.

Oh--I've quite forgotten to add my own historical research to this blog posting. I cannot let this responsibility to the arts panelological lapse!

Steven Wardell was born in 1876, somewhere in the post-Civil War Southeast. There is very little data available on his life or work. His only panelological works appear in Centaur magazines, and no trace of his work is seen by 1941. He would have been my age when he wrote and drew the adventures of Zardi.

His draftsmanship suggests a bygone era. There is no sign of the sleek streamlining of younger panelologists. Wardell carefully crafted each pen-stroke, and was a stickler for detail. He owned a complete magician's outfit, including the all-important cane and cape.

A few younger cartoonists befriended Wardell, and, with his encouragement, strived to better their own work. Said Charles Quinlan, in a 1967 interview:

Wardell was a wonderful guy. He'd spend months on these six-page stories. He'd do sketch after sketch of key scenes. Any one of them would have been more than fine. But he insisted there was only one way to draw a scene right.

I still have... he gave me a couple of his sketchbooks. One is all canes! Canes drawn from every conceivable angle, over and over... the other one is all capes. Every wrinkle, fold and angle you could want on a cape is in this sketchbook. I used 'em on Cat-Man and other work I did. Wardell saved me a lot of time, and I'm glad I knew him. He taught me to put my all into every panel.

Of course, I produced less work that way, and made less money. I used to kind of gently curse Wardell every time I cashed a pay check. But I had a conscience. I had to do things his way. It never quite left me.

One wonders what happened to those fabled sketchbooks! I imagine they would fetch a small fortune on Ebay, or some similar web sight.

Well, 'tis time to go to the Diner and prepare for a busy day. I can almost hear Jeffrey's humming as I write these words.

POST-SCRIPT: Colleagues have informed me of my apparent presence on the popular notworking site, FaceBook. Indeed, some quipster has posed as myself online! This mysterious prank-puller appears to bear me no ill will. I am not a member of FaceBook--this I can assure you. I am too busy correcting Raphael's mathematical mistakes, and prodding Katrice to bus tables, to dawdle online and tell all about my daily minutae!

Unless, or until, this charlatan attempts to libel my good name, I shall let him (or her) have their innocent fun. I've gained many new e-mail friends from this FaceBook impostor. Person or persons: consider this a polite warning! Do not misuse the name of Mason James Moray! Elsewise, you may suffer the wrath of a certain senior crimefighter. Take care--beware!

Holiday Highlights, Local "Occupiers" and Chemical Flea-Men! "Doctor Hormonr" from Popular Comics 58, 1940

2011-11-29T14:23:00.001-08:00

Hale and hearty salutations to one and all! 'Tis a pleasure to be here again, sharing the joys of panelology with my internet friends and companions. Our little hamlet has been cast into the pelirous waters of modern-day politics!

I'm sure you've perused the news media and seen accounts of the various "Occupy" movements. Something about 99 per cent of something, and I believe they're after the missing 1 per cent. Seems like something from an old Republic Pictures "chapter play" to me. But I assume there are bigger stakes at hand.

Believe it or not, we have had our own "Occupy" movement here! True, it consists of 11 bedraggled, unbathed young men and women. They have pitched five tents on the lawn of Mayor Miggins--who, I suspect, has had not a moment of peace since this gaggle of scruffy children "occupied" his prime Kentucky blue grass! (He has it imported from that fair state, via squares of sod and grass, each August.)

We are far, far away from Wall Street and its high-stress concerns here, but the hand of political actisivm is felt nonetheless. These 11 "occupiers" have made Dorrie's Diner a sort of second home. My goodness, how these "young folk" can talk--lecture, more accurately. And how they can eat!

All of them seem named after something found outdoors--Leaf, Loam, Shallot and Cloud are four names I've learned. Gone, I suppose, are the days of Harry, Sheldon and Frank! But, then again, this i s the 21st century we live in--not the past!

You might not think me a political thinker. 'Tis true, my thoughts run more to the halcyon pages of my beloved comic magazines of yore. But I keep my finger on the pluse of the new events. This trend goes back to my teen days. You've heard me speak of the musical duo of Mason and Rusty here. True, our repertoire did lean heavily on that of our idols, Peter and Gordon, but we did include a couple of "messager" songs, as those were popular with our peers. I still recall our Peter and Gordon-styled version of "Masters of War." We did it with a softer, bossa nova style of rhythm. Arranged for two voices in harmony, it always went over well.

We, of course, also sang "Eve of Destruction." I never could get all the words sussed out on that one. Some thing about bodies floating--it still puzzles me, when the original tune plays on my "oldies" radio station. We just mumbled through that part, but it, too, cheered our classmates.

Back to the present, friends. I'm somewhat impressed that the fire of politics still finds root in the hearts of the young. But I recall that I, at this age, bathed, shaved and changed clothes with far greater frequency. I have attempted to pass on these pearls of wisdom to our "Occupy 11," as they drift in and out of the Diner (which is parallel to their "tent city" on Mayor Miggins' front lawn).

Alas, the good mayor has temporarily abstained from his twice-a-week visits to our little eatery. Whenever he shows his head outside his home, much like the groundhog on his day, he is assaulted with shouts, grunts and the expert heavings of small moist things. I pity Mr. Miggins--he is a just, fair, good-natured fellow, and I have always experienced him as being the champion of "the under guy."

Yet, ironically, these youthful crusaders of justice won't given an established "do-gooder" the chance to speak his piece. Truth told, we shall all be glad when this "occupation" is over, and these young lions find something else with which to "occupy" their spare time!

The "11," as the local newspaper has dubbed them, are inordinately fond of the ever-popular "Sloppy Doe" sandwich. Dorrie and I decided to offer a "Protester's Special." Anyone presently living in a tent, within our fair city limits, is entitled to one of these massive, fragrant, dripping sandwiches for one dollar.

As said, these hungry youth tend ot "occupy" the Diner, guitars and notebooks in tow. I've impressed them with my special arrangement of "Masters of War," sung occapella to their slack-jawed surprise. Few of them sing! They mostly huddle in a grubby group, while one lazily strums assorted chords over and over again.

Thanksgiving was a clandestine affair this year--held in secret at the Diner. Truth told, there were two versions of the meal. The one at the Diner featured a streamlined but pleasing spread, including Dorrie's knockout "Fruity Cola Bird" and her "Megaplex Pudding Cake," which features six flavors of pudding, encased in six complementary flavors of fluffy cake.

Prior to this meal, we had a sham dinner at home. It consisted of turkey bologna, bread, American cheese, and a small tray of crackers. This was for the benefit of a certain certain Golden Age cartoonist (initials B.K.). Dorrie has made clear her abiding dislike of Brad Kolger, and has told him that he has worn out his welcome. He is advised to get into his motor home and find another place of residence.

This has caused a rift between Dorrie and myself. To be honest, Mr. Kolger has not proved the fountain of panelological wisdom "Sparks" and I might have hoped for. Some of his anecdotes seem a mite suspicious to me! You know well what a stickler I am for accuarcy. Facts, proven and measured, interest me. Mr. Kolger's imagination is evidently still keen, but our food bills have sky-rocketed. Due to his chronic weight gains, we've even had to purchase new pants for him. Otherwise, he wanders about in soiled boxer shorts and a bathrobe, 24-7.

'Twas while trying to verify one of Mr. Kolger's wilder claims that I came across the name of Bob Bugg. No, he isn't a "funny animal" character! Mr. Bugg was an overlooked, uniquely inspired creator of the Golden Panelological Era. I'd all but forgotten his work until a comment by Mr. Kolger sparked my memory.

I couldn't recall the magazine in which Mr. Bugg's work appeared. I thought it to be one of the Fox titles, or a Nedor publication. An exhaustive search of my holdings from these imprints revealed nothing--although "Sparks" and I did spend several happy hours reading from these vintage issues. Let the protests of man wail and moan. Let controversy cry out. None of these can dim the brilliant, shimmering light of the "people's art" of panelology!

Finally, in an act of desperation, I rifled through a box of minor Dell Comics titles. 'Twas then that this issue of Poplar Comics literally leaped out at me. Its protective bag had an air pocket in it that caused it to shoot out of a stack and land, face-up, on my lap. Immediately, I espied the name of Mr. Bugg's magnum opus: DR. HORMONE!

I've some interesting background material on the strip and its creator. But first, please prepare yourself emotionally for a sutnning burst of panelological art!!

What whimsy and imagination combine to produce the exotic, exciting exploits of "Dr. Hormone!" This tale is highly prophetic of the World War to come. It was created in the autumn of 1940, as the shadows of desctruction loomed large over Europe. "Bob Bugg," in reality a gifted creator named Herschel Roach, saw the war coming to the United States--a full year before the dreaded attack on Pearl Harbor!

Roach's time in the panelological field was short but sweet. His career began with a bang--his car collided with that of editor Oskar Lebeck in a Manhattan parking lot, one day in 1939. Roach had just--unsuccessfully--attempted to find work with the Harry Chesler studio. Down to his last two dollars, Roach was despondent, and failed to look in his rear-view mirror. Bang! He smashed editor Lebeck's rear fender.

The impact of the accident unsecured Roach's portfolio. Sample comic-book pages spilled all over the interior of his car. An angry Lebeck, having surveyed the damage done, saw these pages and immediately forgot his fury. For he was in need of his own "Superman"--at any cost!

Lebeck's concern oversaw a series of comic magazines that were old news in 1939. They existed before the arrival of the paenlological super-hero, and consisted of reprintings from popular newspaper comic strips. These had sold extraordinarily well throughout the middle to late 1930s, but with the arrival of a circus of costumed men of might, the fickle buying public turned away from Lebeck's offerings. He had to act--and fast!

Lebeck offered Roach a job on the spot. He put him to work, in that pay parking lot, on the creation of a new, vibrant super-character. Roach's favorite novel was H. G. Wells' The Island of Dr. Moreau. He'd long had a notion that a good guy version of the feared Moreau might prove a comic-strip sensation.

The possibilities were many: via scientific genius, and a series of experimental injections, his Hormone could change man to beast, insect or bird--and back again. It hadn't been done in comics until then. Roach knew he was onto a "sure thing."

Overnight, Roach created a dozen potential features for Lebeck's perusal. He was less enthusiastic about his other ideas. He clearly wanted "Dr. Hormone" to lead the pack--and it did!

Lebeck was intrigued by the idea of a scientific genius who was sane, instead of mad, and who helped America, rather than harm it. Dell's other super-hero entries, such as "Phantasmo," "The Owl" and "Marvel Man," had failed to "grab" the comic book-buying audience as Lebeck had dearly wished.

Roach wrote and drew "Dr. Hormone" with his heart on his sleeve, and his ear on the pulse of current world events. As said earlier, he could see, all too well, the imminent specter of war on our peaceful American landscape. Only by preparing America's impressionable youth for the onset of chaos and destruction could we be ready to face this hitherto-unseen foe, he believed.

The feature debuted with issue 54 of opular Comics, and ran for the next several issues. Alas, Roach was too much the prophet, and his message was too strong for young minds to take. The feature expired many months before America's entry into the Second World War.

Unsurprisingly, Roach volunteered for the military before "the day that will live in infamy." Alas, he was, by then, a chronic sufferer of hiccups. The attacks would come late at night, and force him away from the drawing board. He tried every "folk remedy" in the book, but the accursed hiccups plagued him without cease. (He later discovered they were due to an allergy to dijon mustard, which he consumed voraciously.)

Because of Roach's medical problem, he was deemed unsuited for military service. He continued in comics, penning features as diverse as "Ellery Queen" and "Rocky Hall, Jungle Stalker." One late feature, "The Safety Hasp," chronicled the doings of a super-powered night watchman who "made the rounds" of the criminal underworld.

"The Safety Hasp" was accepted by Everett Arnold, publisher of Quality Comics, to begin publication in his Crack Comics title in early 1943. 'Twas then that tragedy struck a panelological genius. By this time, he had learned of his mustard allergy, and that it was the source of his frequent hiccup attacks. Roach craved the spicy condiment, knowing full well of its hazards to his health.

One warm spring evening, having consumed three "red hots" slathered with dijon mustard, Roach descended into the subway, to take a train home. As a packed rail car approached, Roach suffered a violent attack of the hiccups. He lost his balance, and fell in front of the speeding subway car. A potential genius of the comic arts was lost to us that sad day in 1943.

In this, the finest of Roach's "Hormone" tales, he applies his character's genius to the unlikely form of the common household pest, the flea. Roach was a champion of insect rights, and felt that fleas, spiders and even his namesake deserved fair treatment in this "land of opportunity."

Were Herschel Roach still alive, I imagine he'd be out there, living in a tent, occupying America with his political fervor. As a tribute to these unbathed, inarticulate youth crusaders, I dedicate this "Dr. Hormone" saga.

Well, 'tis time to "feed the occupiers," so end this post I must. I trust your Thanksgiving was peaceful and pleasant. May this holiday season shower you with warmth and kindness!

Living Legend Proves Trying House-Guest--Plus Thrills from "Cat-man Comics" #20!

2011-10-03T14:04:00.000-07:00

Friends, 'tis been aeons since your humble pilot last navigated this craft 'midst the sweetly fragrant waters of paneology. Such apologies have become the standard on this "bolg," I regret to say.

Life becomes richer, yet more complex, the older I get. Our restaurant thrives in its new "rerto" location--not so new, truthfully! The site has been occupted by Dorrie's Diner for six months now. At last, the scent of "Sloppy Doe" has all but vanished from our humble household. In its stead is the cloying tangle of "Febreze" odors.

As "Sparks" Spinkle, my comrade, puts it in his earthy terms: "More tang here than in a New Orleans cat-house!" All of us have had a late occurence of hay fever, with much sneezing and fast liquidation of tissues the norm.

Abd, as you may have intuited by today's title, a certain Golden Age panelologist still resides in out home. Oh, how I curse the day I invited Bradley Kolger into our adobe! Never have I known a human being so capable of sheer, relentless EATING!

Mr. Kolger has put on considerable weight since joining our extended family. He looks like a little Buddha. His frequent garb of a bathrobe and striped boxing shorts only adds to this effect.

As I write, in teh safety of the New Pantheon (thank the heavens for its existence!) I picture him seated on the living room couch, happily munching away on his favorite afternoon snack. Alternating on a large serving plate are stalks of celery filled with peanut butter or Cheez-Whiz. Liberally spirnkled atop the peanut-butter stalks are small nonpareil candies. Atop the cheese-stalks is a garnish of garlic salt.

I shudder to recall the sounds of his grazing. First, a steady, march-like crunching, decorated with his unconscious sighs. Then, a ritual licking of each digit on the hand that held the stalk: POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! Five perfect cartoon sound-effects, delivered with cringing precision. Then, after a hearty clearing of the throat, the death-march crunch-munch resumes.

I will give Mr. Kolger his due: he has been willing to sit for hours of interviews. His stories about the creators of the Golden Age of Panelology are fascinating, ribald and complex. I hope to have them published in book form soon. Perhaps the next "post" here will consist of highlights from his memoirs. There is an anecdote about Charles Sultan and Rudy Palais that is a side-splitter--I can't wait to share it with you! (Teaser: it involves pigeons and a pencil sharpener.)

I am also pleased to announce that Mr. Kolger has resumed his craft as a panelologist. In collaboration with "Sparks," he is apparently at work on a "Super-Senior" graphic novel! I admit some growing cynicism at Mr. Kolger's claims that he has completed "over 100 pages." "Sparks" assures me the work exists, and that it's good. "Gee, but it's a corker, if I do say so myself--and I do!" my friend is fond of boasting.

Have I seen one single page? Nay, not a line! This household's answer to Simon and Kirby wish their work to remain unseen until the entire work is completed. "Sparks" did "leak" the graphic novel's working title the other day: They Call Him...Super-Senior--A Man The Whole World Needs! I presume the last half is a sub-title. Otherwise, 'twould be hard to fit all that hyperbole on a single page!

How is my dear spouse weathering the presence of Mr. Kolger, you might ask? Answer: not well, not well at all. Were we both not so occupied with the success-story of the Diner, I imagine we would be seeing some counsellor or psychiatrist by now.

Mr. Kolger makes his presence constantly known. His habits are those of the seasoned bachelor--of one not used to the constant presence of other people. Though he is an engaging and sometimes-charming fellow, he has his quirks. "Burp-talk" is perhaps the biggest point of contention, from Dorrie's POV. Mr. Kolger consumes a great deal of diet ginger ale, and uses the carbonation build-up to speak entire sentences in the form of a common burp.

The man has talent in this area, to be sure. It is rather uncanny to have a long reply rendered in the buzzing tones of gastric release! Being a fellow male, I don't mind it (much), but it drives the "little missus" wild with exasperation.

Dorrie laid down the law last Thursday, after one such exhalation from Mr. Kolger. "You. Are. Not. To. Do. This. At. Our. Table. Again," she said, her forehead crimson with rage. He apologized immediately, and has since confined his "burp-talk" to the inner sanctum of our guest room.

Said location is where Mr. Kolger purveys another of his creations: "banjo-humming." This effect is achieved by 1) humming and 2) running one's index finger up and down over one's lips while humming. Once again, I admit the effect is impressive, but even "Sparks" has taken issue with this musical habit, and has called him the carpet for it!

"Sparks," Mr. Kolger and myself share a fondness for the disturbing television serial "Breaking Bad." Monday nights find us seated in the living room, sweating our way through each new episode. "Sparks" reacts to the mis-steps of Walter White by sitting with his knees folded up, held by his hands in "cannonball dive" position, and uttering "OH, gee! OH, gee!" Mr. Kolger slaps his forehead, and offers Mr. White counsel that he, a fictional character, cannot possibly hear, or benefit from.

We all agree that "Breaking Bad" makes us each feel much better about his own life. Not that I have much to regret, at present (save one very obvious and ill-advised decision!)

In other news: Raphael has become a local media celebrity! Channel Six NewsTeam members descended on our restaurant, ostensibly to do a "local color" piece on the bistro. So taken were they with Raphael's Latin charm that the story became all about him. I learned harrowing details of Raphael's life that shocked and moved me. It only confirms the faith in my decision to become his mentor.

Since the broadcast, Raphael now has a twice-weekly berth on Channel Six's Evening Journal Review (a glorified news program, despite its lofty title). Raphael is interviewed by the show's hosts on a variety of surprise subjects, including world events (in which he is surprisingly savvy!)

Needless to say, there is no such thing as bad publicity. His public appeal translates into consumer faithfulness for Dorrie's Diner. To our surprise, he has not asked for a raise, nor displayed other "tells" of a swollen ego. Sweet, dear, down-to-earth Raphael! Dorrie and I plan to increase his salary in November, as a sort of "early Christmas" for him.

Not everyone patronizes this "blog" for my small-town chit-chat. I know that many of you are eager to get on with the show. Well, here it is--and what a show!

I was reminded of the brilliance of today's twin offering when Box 7-C fell off the shelf last week, sppoking me out of a year's growth! This, the 20th issue of Cat-man Comics, literally fell at my feet. The Holyoke comics titles are a mixed lot, at best, with inspiration, overblown grandeur and tedium mingling 'midst each issue of every publication.

First, here's a bloodthirsty scene of Nazi strangulation by the titular hero of the title. Notice the glee with which it is drawn!

'Tis not the Cat-man's exploits you'll see today! As is typical, the back-up features far outshine the main attraction! "Ragman" is a haunting, eerie and moody feature, created, written and drawn by Herman Browner. This is perhaps the single greatest installment of the series. Browner's skill at creating and sustaming a mood is most impressive. Notice, throughout, the role of the Afro-American "Tiny," who is billed as "Ragman's Faithful Helper." There is a touching, true-life coda to this story, which you'll read at tale's end, below.

As said at story's beginning, "Ragman" was created, written and drawn by Mr. Browner. You'll notice I did not mention the lettering. Friends, Browner was a gifted illiterate. He had immense talent as a panelological renderer, as you'll no doubt attest, but the man could not read or write in any language.

Browner lived in constant shame and fear because of this learning disability. The man tried--and tried--to learn how to read, but claimed "the letters get so mixed up it hurts!" It is believed that Browner suffered from reverse dyslexia, in which, through the afflicted viewer's eyes, the columns of text are a hopeless jumble.

Sharing Browner's secret was Manhattan janitor Roscoe "Tiny" Pearl, a seemingly lowly broom-artist who held three college degrees! "Tiny" helped translate Browner's panel-by-panel concepts into literate English. With a deft hand, Pearl neatly lettered each tale, with no one the wiser.

Browner's ruse wa ssuccessful for years--until one day in 1948, when he was arrested at a midtown Manhattan bank. Browner was merely attempting to deposit a paycheck, which had a typographical error. The check read "two hudnred and fitfy dollars" instead of two hundred and fifty.

Browner had to publicly admit his illiteracy when questioned by the police. He was ousted from comic book work as a result of that confession. Remarkably, Browner went on to greater success as a sign painter! With "Tiny" by his side, dictating each word and letter, Browner was soon among Manhattan's elite "window and card men"--a position he proudly held until his 1963 death. Browner never did learn to read!

Up next is a riveting tale of "The Hood," by the team of A. Cornwall and Richard Thresher. (Don't be deceived by the "Al Mandel" on the Hood's cape. That was, in fact, the garment's name!)

Little is known about Richard Thresher, due to his over-identification with his creation, The Hood. Thresher wore a mask, night and day, exactly like the Hood's own cowl. His reason for such outlandish garb? Sinus problems! Thresher claimed that wearing the mask helped relieve painful sinus pressure, which plagued him throughout h is adult life.

From an interview I did with Arthur Cornwall, in 1974:

Tell me about the artist on "The Hood," Richard Thresher...

Heh heh! What a kook! We all called him "The Hoodlum," which he hated! Made him want to spit nails. I used to bring scripts over to his apartment in Greenwich Village. Even on the hottest summer day, he'd have that fool mask on.

That thing got dirtier and dirtier as time went on. We'd sometimes go out to eat, and he'd lift the bottom part of the mask up with a knife, and shovel in food with his fork. He was a pretty good artist, but he had bad aim. Over the years, that thing got caked with gravy, syrup, coffee stains, ketchup and whatnot. But he wouldn't take it off! Not even alone at home.

What became of Mr. Thresher?

He was declared 4-F in World War II, but they finally drafted him into the Korean War. Lord knows how he made it through basic training, with that thing on his face, but he did. Last I heard of him, he was a layout artist for Filmation Studios, out in Hollywood. I'll bet he still has that darned thing on to this day!

I found Mr. Cornwall a rather bitter, vindictive fellow, with many harsh comments about his colleagues and rivals. To be honest, Cornwall's scripts are the worst aspect of "The Hood." Despite his eccentricities, Thresher showed a certain dramatic flair in his artwork. I particularly enjoying spotting his blacks. They are all over each page, and delivered with confidence.

Well, friends, the clock tells me that it's almost time for "Breaking Bad." 'Tis time to join my comrades at home. I'm almost afraid to watch!

NEWS FLASH! A LIVNIG LEGEND FOUND! AUTHENTIC GOLDEN AGE PANELOLOGIST SPEAKS!

2011-07-03T10:59:00.000-07:00

Friends, pardon both my long absence and my excessive use of capitalization. But there is great news! Great ews indeed! Before we proceed, I must confess that the "N" key on this computer is ot workig well today. It tends to stick, and does not always "come through." So please forgive me if I occasionally miss a needed "N."

The ew location for "Dorrie's Diner" has taken off like a skyrocket--an apt metaphor for the approachig Fourth of July weekend. Our sales and patronage have tripled since the move. The chage has done us all well. The household finally no longer smells of the "Sloppy Doe" sauce, and whe Dorrie ad I are home, we are well and truly HOME.

Ad I thought I was retired! This "second career" has absorbed more of my time ad energy tha I ever reckoned. So little time for panelology anymore--witness my crimial neglect of this blog!

But if I had little time for my passion--what with all the accounting, hosting and cash-registering required of me--my passon did not forget me! IT literally walked in the doors of Dorrie's Diner one afternoon in late May, in the form of Brad Kolger. His ame may not ring an alarm, but to the more refined, studied panelologist, such as myself, his is a name to savor.

I would not have recognized this man as the panelological giat he was, when he walked into the restaurant. He was wearing well-worn clothes, with a fishig hat, loaded with old, rusted baits, and a hungry look in his eyes.

He sat down in a booth and ordered profusely from our menu. Raphael could scarcely keep up with him! After takig the man's order, Raphael came up to me. In a confidetial whisper, he showed me the order--for five different entrees, plus salad, dessert and french fries--and said with concer: "Senor Mason, this man cannot possibly consume so many platters!"

But consume he did, ad with relish. He ordered a cup of coffee to go with his Creamy Cinnamon Pie, finished his repast with abundant satisfactio, and then motioned for the bill. It was almost thirty dollars total.

The man approached the counter and left this crude sketch as payment:

A wave of shock passed through me as I held this drawing. Here before me--this humble figure--was one of the "lost greats" of comicdom's "Golded Age!" He hurried to the door. "Stop, sir!" I called out.

He cringed, shrugged his shoulders and took off his hat. "I didn't think it would go over. So where's the kitchen?"

"Sir," I said, with evidet reverence. "You are Brad Kolger--creator of 'Nightshade,' the feature seen in late issues of Amazing-Man Comics?"

Agaim, he shurgged. "Guilty as charged." Then his face took on a quizzical hue. "How in the hell did you know that?"

"I, sir, am a panelologist. In my realm, yours is an admired name. You are always welcome here."

Kolger looked up at me. "No kidding?"

"I could not jest about such important things, sir."

"Well, in that case..."

Kolger ordered a few more items from the menu, and ate them with great relish, "on the house." At one poit, he looked up from his feasting and again shrugged his shoulders. "It's my metabolism. I'm 87 years old, but I still eat like I'm 27!"

"Mr. Kolger," I asked, "are you... homeless?"

"Hardly!" he replied. "I got my camper. Long as my pension checks keep coming, I'm free to tootle all over the place..."

With some argumentation, a persuasive case was made for Mr. Kolger to take temporary residence in our newly-regained spare room (that of the former home bistro space.) I could not let pass this rare opportunity to interview one of the last surviving creators of the finest age of panelology!

To those unfamiliar with the work of Brad Kolger, here is his "Nightshade" story from issue 24 of Amazing-Man Comics:

'Tis a remarkable tale. Just as fascinating is the real-life story of its creator. "Sparks" Spinkle and myself sat down wtih Mr. Kolger in our home on July 5th and captured this exclusive iterview with a living leged of panelology.

MM: Mr. Kolger, you certainly were in the right place at the right time! It’s a pleasure to be able to interview you about your career in panelology.

BK:Pana-what-a-gee?

SS: Comic books. Funny books. All in color for a dime.

BK: Jesus, that was a long time ago. Hey, do you happen to have any softer pillows? The ones on that bed are kind of hard.

MM: I’ll ask my wife when she returns home.

So, please, tell our readership about your work in the comic magazines.

BK: Jesus, I was all of 17 years old when I started doing those stories. Just out of high school. I was always good with a pencil and a pen. I won some art contests in high school. I went to Burl Madison High School of the Arts and Sciences. It was in Flatbush.

MM: I haven’t heard of that school before. Did any other notable cartoonists attend it?

BK: You heard of Mike Roy?

SS: He did The Saint comic strip.

BK: That’s him. That guy had the worst gas! Nobody wanted to sit near him after lunch. That guy could clear a room in 10 seconds. I wonder how his assistants stood it!

MM: I see.

BK: Of course, now they have that Prilosec. I take it. It’s a miracle drug. I haven’t cut one in six months.

SS: Cut one? That’s a corker!

MM: Yes. [pause] Please tell our readership how you broke into the comic book field.

BK: Remember “Hoot” Gibson? The movie cowboy?

MM: Yes.

BK: They had this big national “Draw ‘Hoot’ Gibson” contest. The winner got an internship with King Features Syndicate. They were thinking about a “Hoot” Gibson comic strip.

Anyway, I was pretty slick with a brush, and I decided I was going to do a life-size portrait of old “Hoot.” I got the dope on how tall he was at the public library. Then I did a six-foot portrait—really, more of a caricature—of Gibson. I spent hours on it. I wanted that internship bad. Anything to get out of the family business.

SS: What was that business?

BK: We jarred raw sewage. Farmers would buy it in the winter. Manure would just freeze solid when it got cold. We had seven sizes of jars. The smallest was called a “boomer,” and the biggest was called a “spotter.” It was a terrible business. The stench in the summer was unbearable.

So I figured a life drawing pictures was a bed of roses. I guess it was.

MM: Did you win the contest?

BK: Yep! The judges almost went for a painting done by this English girl. She had horrible breath. Must have eaten onions three times a day. I always kept my mouth clean.

Nothing came of the “Hoot” Gibson comic strip. They had me draw up three weeks of sample strips. Fellow named Craig Maxwell wrote them. He had “Hoot” dropped in the African jungle, as a G-man. “Hoot” disguised himself as a gorilla and was on the trail of some poachers who had stolen these top-secret blueprints.

It was a good story, but Gibson wouldn’t stand for being drawn in a gorilla outfit. It made him see red! He told King Features to go screw themselves. And that was that.

But I had these terrific samples, and I took them around to all these comic book publishers. King Features liked me work, but told me to come back when I was 21. When you’re 17, that’s like a million years. So I took these sample strips everywhere. National liked them, but said they were full up.

MM: How did you wind up working for Centaur Publications?

BK: Just walked in their office, showed them my strips, and lied about my age. Said I was 20, and they bought it.

Their editor wanted a knock-off of “The Shadow.” That radio show was really popular, and some other company did a comic book version. They asked me, point blank, to do a rip-off of “The Shadow.” They said I could do anything I wanted in the stories, as long as it was just like “The Shadow.”

SS: Did you know Mart Bailey?

BK: Bart Bailey? No…

SS: No, no, MART Bailey.

BK: (thinks) No.

What were we talking about?

MM: The creation of “Nightshade,” your first and most successful feature in comic books.

BK: Yeah, yeah. I walked down to the subway station, and it was late afternoon, and thee sun made all the shadows really long. I took a look at those and I said, “Eureka! That’s it!”

SS: Those were your exact words?

BK: I guess. Why is that important?

SS: Did you know Ed Dobrotka?

BK: Huh?

SS: Ed Dobrotka. D-O-B-R…

BK: Uh, yeah. He kept pigeons on his roof. He raced ‘em. Made more money from that than he did on comic books, I’ll tell you that!

MM: I salute you on your ingenious solution to a troublesome dilemma.

BK: Huh?

MM: Er, your creative approach to “Nightshade.” It’s among the most imaginative concepts in early panelology.

BK: There you go with that word again! Sounds like a disease.

Yeah, I had to put my own spin on it. So I dressed him up like a hoity-toity dude. People used to wear those white suits in summer. That was the opposite of his black shadow. I thought it was pretty clever.

I did the first story over the weekend. Took it into Centaur Monday afternoon. They weren’t thrilled with it, to tell you the truth. They really wanted something looked just like Lamont Cranston. But they had a hole in an issue of Mr. Amazing—

SS: Amazing-Man.

BK: Why does the name matter? What matters is, they bought the story. Paid me $125.00 on the spot. That was a lot of money in those days.

I enjoyed doing that series. I was sad when Centaur folded up their shop. The owner committed suicide. He had run up this gigantic tab at a Chinese restaurant, and he couldn’t pay it.

MM: Where did you work after Centaur?

BK: I tried to work for Victor Fox for a few months. The bastard never paid me! What an asshole…

MM: Er, let’s keep this talk family friendly…

BK: Call a spade a spade. The guy was a schmuck! He fancied himself a ballroom dancer. At five sharp every afternoon, he’d drop the needle on this scratchy recording of “Dancing in the Dark.” Then he’d appear, in top hat and tails, and tap dance on top of the drawing boards in the art bullpen. And if you had a page on your desk, it’d have footprints all over it.

We got him good one day. Everyone loosened the table tops on their boards. That bastard came tappety-tapping along, and he ended up in the hospital with two bruised knees. That, and the not getting paid part, was enough for me. I left an unfinished story on my board. Just walked out one day at quitting time.

MM: What happened after that?

BK: Uncle Sam came calling. The minute I turned 18, I got my draft notice. I was just getting established in comic books! National took another look at my portfolio. They wanted me to take over a couple of small features. One was called “The Robot Man.” The other was “Mr. Terrific.” How different my life would have been if I hadn’t gotten drafted!

MM: Where did you serve?

BK: Some bunghole in Kansas. I never went overseas. Hell, I never went anywhere. I painted signs and posters for three years. I also did girlie drawings on the side for the other guys. That got pretty lucrative.

SS: Did you know Arthur Cazeneuve?

BK: Why do you keep asking me these questions? Who are you, anyway?

MM: Please, gentlemen, let’s stay on our task. Did you return to comics after the war?

BK: Sort of.

MM: How is that?

BK: I never made it back to New York. One of my sergeants worked for the National Undertaker’s Association. They had a monthly trade magazine called “The Casket.” I was hired as art director. I did a monthly comic strip. Three pages in every issue. It was all about the business of undertaking.

I created a character called Mr. Tallow. He ran a small funeral home. He was just an average American businessman trying to do a good job. He had an overbearing wife, Sweetie, and a couple of inept assistants. There was also Miss Flotsam, the organist. She had a wig that never stayed on. She’d start to play, and the darn thing would fly off!

MM: How long did this feature last?

BK: Oh, Lord. I started it in 1947, and retired in 1987. Jesus—40 years! It was quite popular in the funeral home trade. I’d go to conventions, and when it was known that the creator of “Mr. Tallow” was there, brother, that was all she wrote!

They put out a hardback book collection of the strips in 1967. “Twenty Years With Mr. Tallow,” they called it. It was over 400 pages! Just try and find that one now. I wish I still had a copy.

MM: Do you retain any of your original artwork, sir?

BK: Nope. It all burned up in 1993. Lost my house in a big fire. I lost everything. That was when I decided to hit the road. Bought my home on wheels and set out to see America.

(picks up the copy of Amazing-Man Comics #24 and peruses it) Gee, this isn’t bad stuff for a 17 year-old. I had kind of a style going then. The character’s hat was a bitch to draw over and over. I could never get it right. But he had to wear that damned hat! Otherwise, he wasn’t a rip off of “The Shadow.” They wanted that hat in every single panel!

MM: So, “Nightshade” was your only comic book creation, then?

BK: Thanks to Uncle Sam, yes.

MM: Do you have any stories—any memories of your peers in the comic book business of the early 1940s?

BK: (chuckles) Brother, where do I start? You ever hear of a fellow named Fletcher Hanks?

MM: Oh, yes. He is held in high esteem in these quarters.

BK: That guy was an out and out lush! I met him when he got kicked out of the comic book field completely. He worked for Victor Fox, too. He hated to work in the bullpen, because A, he couldn’t drink, and B, Fox would tease him about his shoe size.

SS: Shoe size?

BK: Shoe size. Fletcher had huge feet! He was a big bruiser, but his dogs were outsized. He wore size 17 shoes. They looked like big loaves of bread! Fox ribbed him non-stop about those feet. “Big Foot,” he called him. Fox had a little song he’d sing when he passed by Fletcher’s drawing table. Something like “Big foot, big foot, is it true what the ladies say about you?” It made some reference to Fletcher’s manhood being small.

MM: What happened between Mr. Hanks and Mr. Fox?

BK: Oh, lord, Fletcher finally cornered Fox and beat the living crap out of him! We had to pull him back before he killed the guy. When a drunk gets mad, you can’t control him. We walked Fletcher out of the building and told him to go home. And no one ever saw him again. I heard he was a Bowery bum.

SS: Did you know Vernon Henkel?

BK: Now there’s a name I recognize! Vernon could never find a pair of pants that fit him right. They’d either sag in the seat, or they’d ride up too high. Poor guy was in a constant state of discomfort.

He was the best “Monopoly” player I ever met. He got so good no one would play the game with him. It really got him down in his later years.

Anything else I can tell you?

MM: I think that’s sufficient for now. Thank you for sharing your memories with all of us.

BK: I’m going to my room now. Could I have a sandwich and some chips?

MM: I suppose so.

BK: Just make ‘em and bring ‘em to my room. Don’t bother to knock. (stops to look at the “Nightshade” story once more) I should have kept at it. That war ruined a lot of good things. Well, get me that sandwich, OK?

MM: That I shall do!

* * *

Mr. Kolger remains our guest, and shows no signs of movig on. I do hope we can encourage this sleeping giat to return to panelology once more! In the meantime, our food bill has increased. For such a small man, Mr. Kolger can certainly eat.

Before I wrap up today's edition, here is an update. I suppose you recall the local scandal involving the theft of two letters from the Public Library. The theft remains unsolved, but an even greater mystery has sprung from the event. In the dead of night, someone filled in the missing spaces with two Ms. The sign now reads PubMic Mibrary. The new letters were welded on with great skill. I suppose we shall all get accustomed to the sight of it.

A New Beginning--And Another Case For "Super-Senior!" All This And "Buzz Crandall of the Space Patrol," Too!

2011-04-02T12:27:00.000-07:00

Hale, fine friends and panelological peers!

Before you hurl your brickbats and assail me with complaints, please let me explain.

Indeed--'tis nearly three months since my last missive here. But, worry not! I've not been idly napping. Big plans have occured--sweeping changes that have, actually, brought peace to our bustling household.

Biggest news first: Dorrie's Diner is in the process of moving!

Friends, it had to happen eventually. Our business has long exceeded the humble capacity of our in-home facility. Lunchtime found long lines snaking out onto N. Commerce Blvd. This notoriously curving road is a harbinger for accident-prone motorists. Some of our recurring elderly patrons have complained of having their umbrellas, purses and shoes disappear, as they were snagged on the antennae of fast-passing cars and trucks.

As well, neighbors have complained of lawn trampling, and of the hearty armoas of cooking food (which, to be fiar, do indeed permeate the area, for at least a three-block radius)! Marek Czyrsky, a barrel-chested Eastern European fellow on our block, launched a formal complaint with the city, and cited "constant cooking smells" as "blight on street and world" (those were the words on his complaint form, which was forwarded to us by the city).

Dorrie and I sat down, in the greasy aftermath of a "Sloppy Doe" day a few weeks ago, and decided the time had come to expand. Lady Luck favored our choice, and within days, we were shown a wondrous "retrospective" style 1950s restaurant space, in the heart of the thriving home improvement district.

This restaurant was known for years as "Ole Ed's Egg Eyrie." The "Ed" in question was Edgar Corkle, a cantankerous figure in local news who was beloved for his expansive Labor Day decorations, and for his generious donations to Unicef and Cub Scouts troops. His death from congestive heart failure ended a 49-year run of a successful and much-loved bistro.

The building had sat vacant since Mr. Corkle's 2008 passage. It was clearly time for another restaurant to take its place. We were shown the property by Gore Burshing, a realtor friend of Dorrie's. He told us it was "a steal," and "prime location" to boot. We had a chore on our hands, as we removed hundreds of sun-faded, hand-scrawled signs which were layered over the main entrance and on the front windows.

These signs, ancient expressions of grief and hunger, decried both Corkle's death and the appetite of former "regulars" for "Ole Ed's" greasy-but-delectable butter-coated omelets.

Dorrie immediately wanted the property, and the rent was indeed "a stael" by anyone's sstandards. She put Ray-Don on the job of doing a re-design of the exterior and interior. Fortunately, we could import our existing restaurant tables, chairs and booths to the new address. Careful consultation with experts told us that it was also possible to uproot, move and re-install the professional-quality cooking equipment still in our home bistro.

Ray-Don immediately submitted this winning concept sketch. I believe he took a photo of the existing structure, dabbled with it in PhotoShop, and added his proposed signage and such. It is a handsome package, don't you think?

We are in a transitional period. The old Dorrie's Diner is closed, and final touches abound on the soon-to-open new location. Everyone, myself included, is enthused about the move, for many reasons. 'Tis gratifying to have such a "wild cardinal" idea become such a runaway success! And, furthermore, 'tis pleasing to have a substantially less smelly home.

The smell of those "Sloppy Doe" sandwiches was beginning to permeate everything in the house. Even my herbal prescription shampoo bore the tang of barbecue sauce-scent! Gradually, those strong aromas are ebbing, and the house seems a rest haven, sans the clanking, sizzling, chinging and thrumping of a popular kitchen.

I retain my jack-of-trades position as unofficial manager/accountant at the new location. Raphael cannot wait to inhabit the new space. He is a born maitre'd, and relishes the daily challenges of the job. Our newest hire, Katrice, remains uncannily silent, but does her job with greater skill each day.

I sit in my home, entering today's post on a new "EyePad" that Ray-Don insisted we purchase for use at home and at the Diner. It does take some practice to master the diffgicult manner of typinh on this futuristic device. I must use a little wand, which resembles a golf pencil in size, but has a fine wad of bunting on its end, which the "touchy" screen recognizes. Needless to say, there may be some occasonal mistakes in my tping. Please bear with me.

I mentioned in today's headline that a certain "Super-Senior" is back in action. Worry not, dear readers. With some careful consultation, "Sparks" Spinkle has changed his ways. No longer does he brandish eye-harming Easy-Off Maximum Strength Over Cleaner, nor Windex!

"'Sparks,'" I said in strictest confidence, "criminals are rather like bad-tempered animals, eh?"

"You intrigue me, Mace," he replied. "Keep talkin'."

"Like naughty dogs or cats, they have simply learned bad habits. Dogs and cats can be trained to un-learn these habits. They are mammals, much like us, aren't they?"

"Jeepers, never gave it that much thought before," 'Sparks' mused. "Yep, I guess they are."

I then suggested that a certain masked crime-fighter consider the usage of training sprays manufactured to rid household pets of the urges to claw, scratch, bite or urinate. One trip to a "Pet-Smart" store gave us numerous choices. 'Sparks' settled on the popular "Bitter Apple" spray, plus an aerosol product titled "Kitty No-Go!" and another called "Puppy Uh-Uh!"

These three non-toxic, nature-based sprays are quite unpleasant, but essentially harmless to the eyes, ears, throat or hands. Better yet, they come in handy pocket-sized dispensers. (They are quite concentrated!)

Our gentle town indeed needs the services of "Super-Senior." A vile case of vandalism has our town in tyhe grip of fear!

Some sneak-thief removed two letters from the edifice of our town's central library branch. 'Tis a mortal embarrassment to one and all, for the sign now reads:

MAIN BRANCH

PUB IC IBRARY

The metal "Ls," as you might have surmised, were sawed off in the dead of night. Of course, this news soon spread like wildfire, and occasioned an angry editorial in the local newspaper:

As a regular patron of the library, "Sparks" was rightfully angered by this act of ruthless hatred. "It's an embarrassment to the whole blinkin' burg, Mace," he said, seething after supper one recent night. "Come into the Crime-Cave and I'll tell you my theories."

(READERS' NOTE: The so-called "Crime Cave" is an unused storage closet in the back hallway of the house. There is enough room for two men to stand inside. It is rather stuffy.)

"My theory," "Sparks" said, attempting to pace the small footage of the space, "is simple. We look for a fella--or gal--whose first and last name begins with Ls."

"Like Lois Lane? Lana Lang?"

"...or," "Sparks" said, his face darkening, "Lex Luthor. It's gotta be some character on that order, Mace. A fiend--a fella [I'm guessin' he's a fella] who doesn't give a fig for his fellow citizen. No sir! He just gets his hacksaw and helps himself to a coupla letters. Doesn't even have the courage to commit the crime in the light of day! No sir! No, he hasta do the dirty deed while the city sleeps..."

"Sparks" now brandished a copy of the local telephone directory. "He--or maybe she--ain't as smart as they think." He leafed impatiently through the thin pages of the book, and found the "L" listings. He pointed to the grey rows of listings. "Somewhere on these pages is the name of our criminal. It's just a matter of one thing."

He paused. I understood that I had to respond. "A-and what is that?"

"The... process... of... elimination!" He again smacked the open book with his clenched hand. "A careful study of these pages shows up 16 people whose both names start with an L. I'm gonna haunt their dreams 'til I find the guilty party. And here's where you come in, Mace..."

"Sparks" explained, via a "crime-map" he had prepared, that the 16 suspects lived all over the county--beyond the realms of local bus routes, and, in some cases, far beyond my friend's capacity to "hoof it," in his own words.

If I wanted to apprehend a fiend, I would serve as the Kato to his Green Hornet. I would chauffeur him to and fro from these far-flung locations. In the dead of night, we could creep down these driveways, tiptoe across vast lawns, in the hopes of finding the "perp" in his or her lair. Perhaps we might catch them holding or admiring the stolen letters, cackling with glee at his or her misdeed!

So far, we have examined seven of the 16 suspects. No clues have been turned up. "Sparks" slightly sprained his left ankle as he tripped on a garden hose coiled in the front yard of one Lawrence L____. He has walked with a slight limp ever since. This minor injury has not quenched his thirst for justice! His zeal is inexorable. We are scheduled to inspect the home--and yard--of Lionel L______ this evening after "lights out."

All this real-life sleuthing (which, I'll confess, I've come to enjoy) has taken a bite out of my time for panelology. I confess that I've not put much forethought into today's humble offering. It springs forth from the second issue of Planet Comics, an early venture into "sci-fi" comics by Fiction House.

This early Planet is part of a box I brought home, one which has suffered significantly from the embedding of "Sloppy Doe" scent. It is among several vintage comic magazines that I've had laid spread-eagle in my den, the better for the scent to dissipate.

I've never warmed to the output of Fiction House, save their pre-1940 material. Much of that raw, unfettered "wild frontier" feeling is present in the work of that vintage, including this knockabout space tale, written by Bob Colton and illustrated by Jordan Menger. Their pen-name becomes obvious, eh?

They are what I would consider "third tier" panelologists. Theirs was not wild imagination; nor was it listless filler. One looks at stories such as this "Buzz Crandall" opus, and one sees the simple essence of the early American comic magazine. 'Tis an enjoyable tale, if not a medium-shaking one. May you enjoy it!

Those who recalled the team of "Bob Jordan" did so with a smile. Colton and Menger were inveterate practical jokers. They were admired by Jerry Iger for their ability to churn out stories, like this one, in a single afternoon. So fast were they that they foudn themselves with time over their hands. And t hose idle hands were, indeed, the devil's tool.

If Colton and Menger weren't tying innocent inkers' shoelaces together, or to their drawing tables, they were performing their infamous "tag team" pranks. A popular "Bob Jordan Special" would involve one of the duo engaging a busy artist in small talk. While the artist was distracted, the other prankster would light a packet of small firecrackers and drop them down the pants of the innocent artist.

Needless to say, many inked panels were suddenly ruined as those tiny fireworks burst in the artist's trousers. A frequent scene would involve the victim racing about the workroom, yowling in discomfort, his hands flailing in the air as the bursting explosions racked his pants. Occasionally, the poor subject's undergarments would combust as well.

Another stock Colton/Menger prank involved the company soft drink machine. Ken Ernst was an eye-witness to one such shenanigan, and recalled it in a 1972 interview:

Oh, boy. Those guys, you had to watch out when they were around. They had a mean streak. They almost crippled Tom Hickey. Put a bear trap just inside the men's room, and poor Tom had to take a piss. Nearly chopped his right foot off.

They were fast workers, so they would get into trouble. Back then, you could get this laxative called Black Draught. It looked just like Coca-Cola. So they would stock up on it at the drug store. They'd take a T-square and a screwdriver and pry off the cap to a coke bottle. I guess they'd siphon out some of the pop. Then they'd fill the bottle with Black Draught, and whack that cap back on.

The next chump who got thirsty got more than he bargained for. Ten minutes after he drank that thing, he'd hightail it for the bathroom, and that's the last we'd see of him for a day or two!

I wasn't surprised when the news came that Bob's head got blown off. Nobody shed a tear over that. The guy had it coming to him. I don't know what happened to Menger. He probably got drafted. Maybe he got it, too. I hate to say things like that, but these guys were bad news.

The death of Bob Colton, which Ernst refers to, did not occur at the Iger shop. Colton bore an uncanny resemblance to Adolf Hitler, although he had no facial hair--nor did he affect a forelock as did "Der Fuhrer." But, with his hair combed right, and with a smudge of black ink on his upper lip, most passersby would be fooled.

One fateful morning in April, 1942, Colton accepted a dare to march down Broadway, dressed as Hitler, "sieg heiling" and goose-stepping past awestruck Manhattanites. A nervous patrolman on the corner of Broadway and 45th shot Colton dead on sight. No more would arcane gags haunt the Iger shop. One of comicdom's prankster princes was dead and buried.

Menger did indeed join the war effort--as a chaplain in the South Pacific theater of war. Colton's death had an epiphinal effect on the younger member of the team. He turned to religion, and did an "about face" to end them all. He died during a bombing raid in 1945, clearly on the side of the angels.

Well, I must end this missive now. A certain costumed crime fighter is impatient to call on our next suspect. I'm curiosu to see what we find out. I do hope "Sparks" will cease testing the "Kitty No-Go!" spray in the car. It makes me long for the "Sloppy Doe" scent.

Merry New Year--featuring "Agent X, The Phantom Fed" from Sure-Fire Comics number 3, 1940

2011-01-14T09:36:00.000-08:00

To all my dearest friends on the InterNet:

Belated Merry New Year!

I regret my continued infrequency on this “blog.” It cannot be helped. The continued, growing success of “Dorrie’s Diner” has, quite literally, transformed my life.

No longer am I the carefree, devil-may-care retired panelologist. I have a new career—one seemingly thrust upon me by the cavalcades of fate, but a role I have come to cherish, and to take seriously.

Friends, the bistro business can be a thankless grind. We exist to serve one of mankind’s base needs—the desire to eat. When you or I are hungry, our concerns of wealth, fame or art go out the window. All that matters is setting down to a good, solid meal—and consuming same to our satisfaction.

Thus, we as expectant eaters do not necessarily represent hhumankind at its zenith. The hungry Hono Sapiens can be grouchy, cross, gruff or impatient. Show me the food, he seems to say, and then we shall conduct ourselves with civility.

Case in point: Thursdays have become “Sloppy Doe Day” at the Diner. Sloppy Doe, you say? Yes, it’s Dorrie’s inspired take on the juicy barbecued meat sandwich. Dorrie uses ground turkey, in place of the traditional beef (it’s healthier, yes, but it’s also quite cheaper than cow meat), and plants cubes of tantalizing swiss cheese into the mix.

Those who know to ask for it can receive it “fuerte style,” with a legion of finely diced jalapeno chunks, or “a la Norwegian,” in which the sandwich is served refrigerated.

Needless to day, Thursdays are boom business days at the Diner. Seemingly, no one in a ten-mile radius can resist the siren song of these two-fisted sandwiches. All day long, I hear the spatter of oozing saucy meat, as it is squeezed out of the bread and trickles onto the diner’s plates, our laminated tablecloths, or to the floor. The latter poses a slippery hazard which only builds as the day grows longer. By closing time, the slick tile floor is as deadly as an ice field.

But I difress. Our Thursday customers are a ravenous lot. I expect they awake with visions of “Sloppy Doe” sandwiches, drizzling and tangy, hot and punguent. By lunch time, these folks have worked themselves into a mood. They slam the door open, scowling and tense. “Where’s a table?” they demand. “And bring me an extra bib!”

To handle a “Sloppy Doe” is to risk the welfare of one’s clothes. Each bite sends tendrils of juicy, blood-red sauce onto the eater’s face, hands, shirt, pants and shoes. Thus, in order to sustain a robust business, we have purchased several thousand disposable “body bibs” from a New Jersey wholesaler.

These “body bibs” are not unlike those travel bags one uses for suits and other garments on hangers. The user steps into the “body bib” and then zips it up to his or her chin. Their arms exit through one-size-fits-most arm holes. They then don arm-length paper gloves, which we purchased from a supply house in Oregon. MMM MMM!, they read. WHERE’S THE CHOW? Apparently, there is a national need for pre-printed food gloves. We are part of that chain of supply and demand.

Raphael is in charge of helping the infirm and elderly don their “Body Bibs,” and of making sure they remove them after their meal. The bibs have no legs, and sated patrons have attempted to leave the premises hopping like some giant earthworm in an old cartoon.

It bears repeating: our Thursday patrons are a cross lot! Until the sandwiches appear before them, they seem capable of homicide. Their heavy fists pound the tables. Napkins and toothpicks are nervously removed from their dispensers and destroyed via fidgeting. The air is a chaos of tuneless humming and whistling. These fine folks are here to eat, and they want their sandwiches in the worst way!

All I can do is smile and serve. We use no menus on Thursdays. No other entrees need be prepared.

The Diner resembles a bloody battlefield after closing on Thursday afternoon. Silently, grimly, Raphael, Katrice and I clean up the aftermath. The pile of used, discarded “body bibs” and those merrily-printed food gloves is enormous. I have a special “Thursday suit” that I wear to dispose of them. Into extra-large garbage sacks they go. Those are loaded into the Prius and chauffered to the city dump.

The car reeks of “Sloppy Doe” scent for the next several days. Needless to say, none of us who work at “Dorrie’s Diner” have any desire to bite into one of those popular sandwiches! Raphael has come to resent the Thursday sandwiches. He puts on a brave face, as he helps the elderly into their body bibs and watches our patrons plow into the drizzling slabs of bread, sauce and meat.

Under his breath, he spoke a truth in his native tongue:

Lo inútil y sucio…

Enough of that topic! I thank you for letting me get that out of my chest.

What of Christmas, you may ask? I sorely regret not continuing my annual tradition of the holiday super-posting. I was laid up with an ear infection for the entire holiday week. I know not where it came from, but it so affected my sense of balance that I could not walk. I could manage a stagger to and from the bathroom or kitchen, but that was it.

I did spend Christmas Day out of bed, but stayed in my pajamas, robe and slippers the entire time. We had a small, pleasant holiday meal, with “Sparks” Spinkle, Raphael, Katrice and Burt Liffler. “Ray-Don” and his “companion” were out of town, to attend some family event in Illinois.

I asked Raphael about his friend, Henri, who, as you’ll recall, partook of our memorable Thanksgiving soiree. Raphael’s normally jolly mood grew dark, and he picked at his food. “It is best, Senor Moray, if we don’t speak of Henri today…” No more was, or could be, said of the subject.

Raphael soon brightened again (and who could not, given the lavish spread set before them by my dear wife?). Afterwards, we gathered in the living room for an exchange of gifts. For Raphael, I prepared another package of vintage “revistas,” which he accepted with glee. Dorrie got Katrice a gift certificate to Ross Dress-for-Less, which I think she appreciated.

My purchase for Dorrie was a year’s subscription to a local spa, where she can go anytime to be massaged, steamed, lotioned and sit under a sun lamp with cucumber slices over her eyes. Women love that sort of thing, and Dorrie is no exception.

“Sparks” insisted that we not “go to any fuss and bother” over him. Having a home, he said, “is enough gift for me.” Nonetheless, I purchased a new Pepsi sweatshirt for him. His prior one had gotten mildewed from being stored under the front steps. This is actually a “hoodey” shirt, complete with a kangaroo-like pouch in the front. I am sure this garb will be described in the local press for years to come.

As for myself? I had a pleasing pile of vintage comic magazines, accrued over the year and salted away by Dorrie. I tend to forget what I’ve purchased, so the gala end result is always a pleasant surprise. My panelological needs grow fewer as the years pass, but no less meaningful.

By far, the crown gem of this lot was a beautiful copy of Sure-Fire Comics number three—on the top of my want list for years! This magazine represents the early peak of the panelological art, friends—each and every story is a blazing gem!

I’ve only time to post one tale from this splendid tome. And here ‘tis—Agent X, The Phantom Fed, as written and drawn by Burt Guthries. Enjoy, friends, and drink deeply of this vintage brew!

I shall give you a few moments to collect yourself, in the wake of this blinding tale of brilliance. How I gaped and gasped as I first read it! You see, we experienced panelologists expect little of these non-superhero features in early comic magazines. They were, by and large, holdovers from a timid, pre-heroic age of popular fiction. They continued mainly because editors were lazy, and simply wished to fill the pages of their publications as effortlessly as possible.

But what of the creators who continued these lesser features, watching on the sidelines as their peers depicted the fantastic realms of heroism and fantasy? Simply put, they believed in their work and its worth.

Burt Guthries was a reluctant panelologist, but a voracious one. His career began in the 1910s, as a sports illustrator and courtroom sketch artist for several New York and Newark daily papers. Guthries, a clasically trained portrait artist, had embedded in himself the perfectionist tendencies of a schooled fine artist. As a result, he could be painfully slow.

Guthries was fired from one Gotham paper during the landmark trial of Bruno Richard Hauptmann, the kidnapper of aviator Charles Lindbergh's child. Guthries spent so much time on a finely detailed portrait of the fingerprint expert that he missed capturing images of Hauptmann, the case's judges and attorneys, or Lindbergh himself.

Guthries drifted to the pulps in the 1920s, where he had to learn to work faster. He developed a technique in which he pencilled with his left hand and inked with his right. This allowed him to double his work-rate—and thus match the speed of the average artist.

As pulps began to experimentally feature original comics material, Gurthies transitioned to the arts panelological in the 1930s. His knack for drawing people, cars and buildings made him a success in this burgeoning field.

Guthries stuck with the genre of G-men, T-men and Federal agents. As he perfected his two-hand technique, he became the "go-to man" for this type of filler material. "Blake Barton," "Trump Tolliver," "G-Man Garson" and "Treasury Squad" poured from his drafting table.

Scorned by his younger, less skilled colleagues, Guthries preferred to work at home, where he could prepare his minor tales in peace. He scoured the headlines for material. In the 1930s, there were plenty of federal-man antics on the newspaper page.

One March, 1940 story particularly intrigued him. It told of G-man Chet Weldon, who donned a bear skin, at a remote hunting lodge, to startle and capture wanted racketeer Butch Maddron. Weldon's "bear scare" created a sensation in the world of government agencies, and was much-imitated. Agents donned the skins of wildcats, lions, tigers and other man-sized animals to entrap and baffle wanted criminals.

Thus, Guthries' fact-based tale, which you have just read, is really not so fantastic. All its elements are viable, believable and feasible. Their hearty combination—somewhat like the vivid array of ingredients in a "Sloppy Doe"!—creates a superb blend of the factual and the fantastic.

Alas, Guthries' masterpiece was ignored. It was wedged into the back half of this comic magazine (although it received second-billing on the cover!) and overwhelmed by the phantasmagorical exploits of its co-inhabitants. It would prove among Guthries' final panelological works.

Sometime in 1941, Guthries quit the comic magazine "racket" and became a full-time fine artist. He specialized in harbor scenes. This passion—and his latent perfectionism—cost him his life. One spring morning in 1948, Guthries set up his easel and chair on the precarious cliffs overlooking the harbors of Maine. The scene he painted was to depict a weathered lighthouse, with a sun-withered rowboat.

The intricate textures so intrigued Guthries (who worked with binoculars) that he ignored the beginnings of a landslide. The artist, and his final work, were overwhelmed by seismic irregularities. He was inextricably buried under deep mounds of shifted earth and rock. His final, nearly-completed work lay, safe and sound, atop his final resting place. Unfinished Lighthouse and Old Boat is regarded as a masterwork of quiet, understated realism. You may find it elsewhere on the InterNet.

Well, friends, I must return home. It's getting late, and I've enjoyed my visit to the New Pantheon. 'Tis time to file my new treasures and enjoy an evening meal. Who knows what panelological thrills this new year holds for us all? In the meantime, may health and joy be yours in every way!

Zebra-Man vs. the Human Frog, from Pocket Comics, 1941--plus more news of life and home!

2010-12-05T15:03:00.000-08:00

Salutations, my fellow patrons of the printed panel and page! 'Tis too long, far too long, since last we visited. The sands of time do tend to get in one's eyes, as blown by the fickle winds of fate, eh?

With Dorrie's deft assemblage of her classic Turkey-gouda-pineapple stack sandwich, the last of our Thanksgiving "bird" was done at lunchtime. Dorrie marinates the turkey in two liters of Royal Crown Cola, mixed with one pouch of unsweetened fruit punch-flavored Kool-Aid, and then pressure-roasts it. The result is main course and dessert, all in one dish. Of course, we enjoy pumpkin pie, yams with mini-marshmallows, apple pie and such.

We set a festive table, with many guests. "Sparks" was there, looking somewhat better than when last I reported. Raphael and his friend, Henri, whom he says is from his hometown (but who speaks in a French Canadian accent!), Dorrie's half-sister Stephanie, Burt Liffler from next door (dressed in long pants for the first time in memory), Ray-Don and his "room-mate" Clifton, and Jim R., from my former job, joined us for the meal.

"Sparks" had to have his meal blenderized, as his system is still delicate. He insisted that Dorrie blend everything together. "It's a meal in a glass!" he commented between each lusty sip.

The meal went peacefully until Stephanie was seized with panic. "My bag!" she cried, as she sat up from the table, startled, in mid-chew. "It has my new clarinet in it! Oh, lord..."

Stephanie was certain she had left her shoulder-bag in the taxi in which she arrived at our doorstep. A panicked hour or two passed, in which repeated attempts were made to find the driver of the cab she took. To add to the suspense, the cabbie's radio was either off or broken. Apparently, he picked up numerous rogue fares from those who are stranded en route to, or from, their holiday festivities.

Stephanie was assured by the cab dispatcher that all lost items are brought into the main cab depot and held in a locked lost and found. She feigned calm, but I could see right through it. Her worry cast a black cloud over the rest of the evening.

Dorrie lightened the mood of the room by challenging all of the rest of us, as a team, against her in a titanic match of Scrabble. Stephanie was non comptos mentos from all her worry. The remainder of us gamely took on Dorrie. (That is, with the exception of Jim R., who begged off due to a "hot date.")

Raphael's friend, Henri, proved a most formidable opponent for "the missus." He brought the game to a momentary standstill with his daring play of the word ILLUMINERS. Dorrie challenged the word, which would have earned our team 89 points, as it was both a "bingo" and a Triple Word Score.

Henri claimed it was a word that meant "lamp-lighters," in reference to the trade of olden days. Back and forth the argument pulsed. I was anxious, as we had drawn the Z and Q tiles, as a result of this play, and were set to play QUETZAL as our next smash move.

I had to drive to the New Pantheon, go to an online dictionary website, seek the word ILLUMINERS, and return home. Of course, as I immediately discovered, there was no such word!

Before I shut down the computer, I took note of an accumulation of comic magazines atop my desk space. Friends, I think of you, and of this "blot," every day, and wish I had the time and space to make daily posts. I regret these long lapses, when the duties of life take their toll. Why, I was not able to spend precious time in my sanctum for THE ENTIRE WEEK before Thanksgiving!

Business at the Diner has continued to grow. Dorrie has had to hire an assistant chef--a mute young woman whose name, I believe, is Katrice. As she is mute (albeit extremely bright), she cannot repeat Dorrie's recipes to the world at large. Katrice has the unfortunate habit of sneaking up behind me, silent as a Sioux, and tapping me on the shoulder. I believe my life expectancy has been shortened by at least 11 months due to several of these incidents. I have learned not to over-react, and therefore not bruise her sensitive feelings.

Raphael's recent purchase of a wrist calculator (worn like a watch!) has improved his cashiering skills enormously. Each day, our till has the same overage or shortage: 37 cents. It no longer surprises anyone. If it is an overage, it goes into the tip bucket, to be split by Raphael and Katrice. If not, 37 cents comes out of the tip bucket.

Where was I? Oh, yes, this "bog" and my commitments. I have prepared a small stack of choice panelological gems with which to assail you in this and future posts.

Today's selection was borne of a common occurrence, as I root through boxes B-44 and B-45. My holdings of a curious series of "half-size" comics resides in these archival boxes. As a fascinating side-street of the panelological world, such titles as Nickel Comics and Pocket Comics are also a bothersome item for serious students and accumulators, such as myself.

They so easily lodge into corners of the boxes, fall on their sides, or slide underneath a regular organized stack of comic magazines. After having pulled my copy of Pocket Comics #4 from such a position many times, I opted to remove it, and its pint-sized brethren, and place them in a shoe box. Though it lacks the grandeur of the archival storage boxes that hold my other panelological gems, they are a proud, if dimunituve, part of the Pantheon.

I couldn't resist examining the elfin booklet, and soon settled in to read its 100 pages of colorful content from cover to cover. I confess that I fell asleep--'tis the fault of the endorphins in turkey! I awoke two hours later, disoriented, the tiny Pocket Comics perched on my chin. I recalled, with a start, the mission that had sent me here!

I could not, of course, find that dubious word on the online dictionary. Oh, my friends, I was in the dog house! I pictured our guests tapping their collective toes in smoldering fury. I meekly tucked the Pocket Comics into my coat pocket--how aptly named the book! It fits perfectly!--and motored home to "taste my medicine."

Imagine my surprise to approach the Moray residence and see an ambulance on our front lawn, its crimson lights silently throbbing! I left the Pruis in mid-street and dashed inside.

Friends, Stephanie had suffered a minor "attack," borne of her anxiety over the missing clarinet! She was now recovered, and laid groaning theatrically on the living room couch. Beside her stood "Sparks," who hovered like a worried owl, tsk-tsking and pacing the length of the sofa.

Dorrie had served the ambulance folks a late plate of Thanksgiving cheer. They sang their praises of Dorrie's Fruity Cola Bird (her name for the recipe) and her mashed potatoes, which are infused with canned green peas and small pieces of salted waffle batter.

Apparently, Burt Liffler had gone back home, to shed his un-natural long pants and return to his preferred gymnastic shorts.

Raphael and Henri dozed before a vintage episode of Hazel on TV. I do not know the whereabouts of Ray-Don or Clifton. I assume that they, too, tired of the wait and returned to their condominium for an evening's frolic.

"There is no such word as ILLUMINERS," I told Dorrie.

"I figured as much," she said.

"Stephanie... is she--"

"Oh, she'll snap out of it. She always does. This is just her way of getting attention."

The medical men finished their plates. Dorrie called out, in a voice clear as a Swiss sky: "There's pie!" A drowsy Raphael and Henri stumbled into the living room. "Sparks" looked longingly at the blender in the kitchen.

Yes, friends, there was pie. Dorrie's imagination has ne'er manifested itself so boldly as in her 3-in-1 Holiday Pie. Imagine, friends... one large pie with two smaller ones baked inside. A culinary equivalent to those little Russian dolls that all stack together.

The outer layer is a mince pie. The second layer is pumpkin. The third, and smallest, inner layer is a delightfully tart apple cinnamon pie. One would think that such distinct and rich flavors might cancel one another out. It is far from the truth! Each forkful combines the sweet, the savory and the tart. One mouthful is enough to make one wish each and every day could be Thanksgiving.

"Sparks" had his piece pureed, and sipped it with glee. "Wow!" he exclaimed with each slurp. "Hot dog!"

Dorrie made coffee. We all had the serene feeling of a lovely holiday. Despite Stephanie's low moans, all was well in the Moray household.

Then the police showed up. Apparently, it is a minor infraction of the law to leave one's car in the middle of the street! I sheepishly brushed pie crumbs off my chest and loped outside to park the car properly.

Laughter and a chorus of "Mm-MMs!" greeted my return. Yes, the "boys of blue" had cuaght wind of Dorrie's 3-in-1 pie, and took a pause from duty to enjoy a heaping slice.

"Oh boy," "Sparks" cackled. "All we need now is the Coast Guard!"

I did, I confess, glance at the front door. I do now know what a Coast Guard member might look like, but that would have been their cue to come marching inside. They did not.

Dorrie took on the police and ambulance staff in an epic Scrabble match. Her need for the game had been thwarted earlier. "Sparks" and I retired to my den to examine the issue of Pocket Comics. 'Twas then that today's story leapt out at me. Friends, this is a perfect example of the rewards of panelology. Within a book that most collectors regard as a nuisance, due to its odd size, resided this gripping, atmospheric, staggering tale. Prepare yourself--and I hope you have a slice of your favorite pie on hand! As they say, "it's going to be a ride!"

As you may have guessed, "Ellery King" is not the real name of the creator of "The Zebra." A team of three men produced "The Zebra." Writer Zeb Mullins had known the life of the "jail bird." Many arrests for littering had him in and out of "the stir" in the 1920s and '30s.

Mullins had long nursed the idea of a costumed crime-fighter who was, in real life, an ex-convict. He initially sought to call the character "Barman." Artist Sid Klensky pointed out that this was the title of a tavern-keeper, and, as such, would not be suitable for a crime-fighter.

John Creighton, a court stenographer who was friends of the Mullins-Klensky team, quipped that a character with black and white stripes might as well be called "Zebra-Man!"

This attempted joke turned into reality. Mullins and Klensky were convinced that the future of panelology lay in these experimental pint-size magazines. They prepared "The Zebra" speficically for Pocket Comics. Editor Grant Meehan approved of the feature, and the creative team was off to a flying start!

Creighton, who neither wrote or drew, was a vital member of the creative process. His role was to sit in an office chair and review each page of script. He would then apply this keen eye to Klensky's artwork. Some might call this "micro-management" today, but it assured that the "Zebra" tales were among the most striking--and impressive--features of Pocket Comics.

Carnivorous plants--sent by mail or messenger--would prove to be staple of Zeb Mullins' comic book stories. Time and again, in Mullins' world, a mysterious messenger--or cheerful postman--deposits a dangerous meat-eating plant (or the seed of such a plant, as seen in this tale) on the doorsteps of heroes and villains alike.

Mullins attempted to develop a newspaper comic strip, in a humorous style, along these lines. No examples are known to exist, but suffice it to say the concept was soundly rejected. Mullins became religious in the late 1950s and disappeared from the ranks of the panelological.

His concept was borne out in 1977, with the newspaper debut of Flip and Flytrap, a slyly humorous comic strip about a lonely bachelor and his talking carnivorous plant. As you know, the concept has sired TV series, several movies, and a startling number of hardcover novels. The series' creator, Ned Hempstead, did not know of Mullins' work. Few do, outside the bravest ranks of we panelologists.

The next time you encounter a carnivorous plant, or a simple seed, delivered by post office or messenger, in a vintage comic magazine, you can rest assured that it is the work of Zeb Mullins.

Few panelological gems can boast a finale as brilliant as this "Zebra" tale. What a stirring moment of utter realism! I should imagine that it would be difficult, in real life, for a costumed crime-fighter to separate his secret identity from his costumed one. To show up in the office of one's secret identity, and request to see one's self, is a metaphorical wrinkle worthy of the finest literature. Which, as we know, is exactly what our beloved panelology so often is!

P. S. Stephanie, who tends to mis-remember things, had (A) not brought her bag with her and (B) did not actually own a new clarinet. She had been thinking about it, and had a Selmer catalog open to the clarinets page. Dorrie mentioned that this is one reason who Stephanie is seldom invited to family events.

"Dynamic Man and Dynamic Boy"-- from Dynamic Comics 23-- 1947 (!)

2010-10-26T10:49:00.003-07:00

Warm salutations, friends and countrymen! Dorrie's Diner has revised its hours. We now open at 9 AM and close at 3:30 PM. This affords me more time to devote to my beloved panelology than I've had in eons!
As well, "Sparks," now that he is dis-connected to the mysterious breathing apparatus, has bounced back considerably. He is still weak, and Dr. Denner advises him to stick to bed-rest. This edict could not be harder for a human being to follow!
"Sparks" earned his nick-name. He has always been an "on the move" type of fellow. Quick on his feet, quick-witted, and, to be honest, nervous!
As long as I've known him, he's rarely been in repose. His mealtime habit, unchanged through the decades, is to rock back and forth, rapidly, while humming "Over There," as he shovels down the food on his plate. "Over There" will cease for half-muttered exclamations such as "Gee! Good chow!," "Hits... the... spot!" and "Crunchy!"
"Sparks" will typically finish a meal--plate almost licked clean!--before I, or anyone at the table, has made a significant dent in their dishes. Once he is done, "Sparks" makes eye-contact with me, claps his hands (loudly!) and shouts, "Ho-kay, Macey! Let's get at them comics!"
I cannot help but blush when he does this "bit." It is a thorn in Dorrie's heel. She considers the ultimate complement to her cooking to have someone linger lovingly over every bite. I have learned (the hard way!) to chew slowly, and to make an "Mmmm-MMM!" response--somewhat similar to Andy Griffin's on the old "Ritz Crackers" TV commercials.
That one civility has kept ours a happy marriage all these years. The best part is that those responses are rarely forced. Dorrie is one heck of a fine chef! She insists on serving green vegetables, but I eat them, as I know they're good for me.
After Sunday dinner, "Sparks" insisted that we spend the evening at the New Pantheon. "Mace, we've just gotta go there! Tonight! No kiddin'!"
"But, 'Sparks,'" I countered, "Dr. Denner's orders... you're suppoposed to stay in bed--"
"Bull cookies!" was "Sparks"' response. "We've got work to do!"
Dorrie was disappointed, but agreed with me that it would be good to get him out of the house for a few hours. We took along a new portable "Breath-Pak" device. It is like a rucksack--worn on the user's shoulders, with a face-mask and clear plastic tubes that can easily be attached in case a burst of fresh oxygen is required.
"Sparks" insists on wearing the face-mask, which somewhat muffles his speech and distorts it. Thus, most of what I hear form him is "Buzz buzzaty buzz... bz zmm?" In the car, "sparks" rocks back and forth, patting his thighs in a fast rhythm and buzzing old favorites suchas "Mountain of Love," "God Bless America" and "Lollipop." As I said, he's an active sort!
We arrived at the New Pantheon. "Open the door, boy, open that door!" "Sparks" barked. He was uncommonly eager to get inside!
I hadn't switched on the lights, and already he dashed for Boxes 3-W through 7-W... the miscellaneous publishers holdings. Many of the comic magazines in these boxes are post-1942, and thus of less interest to me. But "Sparks" is noting if not surprising, and he did not fail with his inquisitive, searching nature once again.
"A-HAAA!" he cried (the cry more of a buzzing "Z-HZZZZ!" through his mask). He held up a copy of Dynamic Comics. I did not recognize it. I recall buying these with great excitement. Due to their 68-page count, I assumed they were pre-1942. Alas, this was a ploy for a small publisher--Harry Chesler--to carve a niche in the over-crowded post-war comic magazine market. While all other magazines trimmed down to 36 or 52 pages, Chesler chose the pre-war standard.
To be fair, these magazines were a hodge-podge of old and new material. Some of it is surprisingly good; some is shoddy and amateurish.
"Zzs zs za zun, Zace! Zzs Zs ZIT!" "Sparks" cried out.
He opened the cover and demanded that I read the very story I breathlessly presetn to you today. Ready yourself, dear friends... 'tis truly a golden surprise from the post-war era!

In view of today's "gay rights movement," one can long for the days when innocent tales such as this could be read without irony or interpretation. Many costumed comic book heroes do indeed appear "home-erotic" in the light of the 21st century. Their chiseled physiques, tight-fitting costumes and provocative names are fuel for the fire of modern irony.
It would surprise some of these modern smirkers to realize that, indeed, some of the 1940s' super-heroes were, indeed, intended to be "gay" or "lebsian" in their orientation. In their highly coded, metaphoric manner, certain of these features were beacons of hope and reason to the hidden, cloistered souls in small towns and big cities who dared to embrace "the forbidden love."
Dynamic Man was the brain-child of Hess Merrill, a playwright, gardener and (some have claimed) gigolo who turned to the comic magazines for pocket money.
Merrill had created a rash of similar characters in the 1940s, for various small publishers--many of them never printed. Merrill's "MO" was to take an exciting adjective, add "Man" and "Boy" to it, and craft a colorful tale of crime and punishment.
Thrilling Man, Exciting Boy, Magnificent Lad, Surprising Man, Aggressive Boy, Energetic Man, Intense Lad--these, and more, were the creation of Hess Merrill. While Merrill was no great shakes as a writer (his tales are highly formulaic and prosaic), he always included a couple of "tells"--as a sort of silent signature to his work.
Each of Merrill's stories has a scene just liek this one:
This is nothing if not a coded message to the cloistered "gays" of 1940s America! In their daily lives, they also faced such a crisis. What if their "secret identities" were discovered? Was there a "Dymanic Man" living next door to you--or was he your postman, your green-grocer, your ship's chandler?
Merrill's other significant "tell" was to conclude his stories with a scene of his heroic couple bathing or showering--and being interrupted by a third party, as seen here:

In a 1977 interview for Thrust! magazine, Merrill spoke briefly--and cryptically--of this ritualistic "tick":

I felt that the act of bathing--naked, soapy, active--was a sign to my fellow lurkers that they were indeed clean, proper, fit entities for a modern world. It was the world, its sad little self, who failed to take heed of this obvious truth. Poor world; I pity you so...

Merrill predictably drifted into the twilight world of "adult fiction" in the 1960s. These themes of his panelological work continued, unabated, in his fiction. Merrill made a niche of himself during the "camp" craze of 1966 with a series of tongue-in-cheek super-hero spoofs.

Merrill wrote each of these books under a different pen-name. Thus, they are resoundingly difficult to track down. I had the good fortune to acquire my lone Merrill adult novel, Wham! Pow! It's Vigorous Man!, at a Girl Scouts rummage sale in Idaho, some 20 years ago.

Here are the closing paragraphs of this "Kurt Weedon" novel, copyrighted 1968:

Vigorous Man peeled off his sweat-soaked costume. How tight it was! It left nothing to the imagination. And, yes, there was indeed plenty to reveal!

"What an adventure," Vigorous Man sighed. "I can't wait to get to bed..."

"I'm with you," Vigorous Lad muttered. He removed his mask and tossed it into the growing pile of sweaty, glistening fabric.

"Bet I can get undressed before you can!" Vigorous Man laughed.

"You've lost that bet," said Vigorous Boy. He slowly peeled off his colorful tights...

The warm water of the shower felt like a million heavens. How taxing, how strenuous were their actions in saving Townville! Yet a long, hot shower, with his faithful crime-fighting partner, was the ultimate reward for their manly feats of derring-do...

"Soap my back?" asked Vigorous Boy.

"All that and more!" quipped Vigorous Man. He lathered his young ward's shoulders, and massaged his rippling shoulders, slowly, lovingly...

Then the door opened. It was Sgt. O'Flannery--flabby, jowly, in need of a shave, smelling of corned beef. "Ah--there you are! Fine work, fellows. Fine work!"

"Sgt. O'Flannery! Holy potatoes!" cried Vigorous Boy. "W-we can explain..."

"Ah, 'tis nothin' t' explain, me lads... nothin' t' explain... I'll leave ye t' yer foine washin', noo."

O' Flannery tipped his hat and exited.

"We've just got to get a lock for our front door," Vigorous Boy sighed.

"I'll put up a barricade," Vigorous Man quipped.

"Brother, we'll need it!" They both laughed, a long lusty and sudsy laugh.

Hess Merrill died in 1981. Had he lived, I truly believe his ground-breaking trance-gender stories would be hailed by progressives. Instead, they linger in their own cloistered twilight... in the yellowing pages of obscure, unwanted comic magazines.

I am, without a doubt, heterosexual. But as a panelologist, I vividly understand what it is like to be outside the margins of acceptable society. What it means to be thought a fool, a coward, and an eccentric!

Needless to say, "Sparks" Spinkle has struck vintage gold once again! I've a good mind to let him rummage through the "W" series boxes. I hope to present other unearthed gems via his tireless discoveries!

POST-SCRIPT: As a reward for this outstanding "find," I allowed "Sparks" 15 minutes of crime-fighting in the downtown retail area. We discovered an arsonist, another parking meter cheater, and several litterers. Without leaving the car, "Sparks" put them in their place with a bracing lecture. They stopped in their tracks. Litterers properly disposed of their trash; the arsonist stopped to stamp out his cigarette butt; the meter cheater ran into the night.

"We've done good tonight, Mace," sighed "Sparks," as he replaced his breathing face-mask. "Ze've zun zood zoonight."

"Flagman and Rusty" from Captain Aero Comics--Plus News Updates of Home and Life

2010-10-08T17:03:00.000-07:00

I apologize, dear subscriber, for the long silence since my lsat post. To be blunt, events in my life have not been ideal of late. The month of September was one of much suffering. "Sparks" continues to have ill health.

The last week of September was a dark one for us all. My dear friend nearly perished of his health problems. You will recall that "Sparks" was suffering from a collapsed lung. As it turned out, the red and blue ticking, hissing machine that he was hooked up to had something weirdly wrong with it. It was full of Brach's "Neopolitan Sundae" candies!

Apparently, someone at the hospital used the inner hatch of the contraption to store their snacks. On-the-job eating is expressly forbidden at Emberton Memorial Emergency Medical Centre Pavillion. Thus, this person (likely an intern) hoarded his or her snacks deep in the bowels of this seldom-used machine! (It has a 1966 copyright on it--the machine, that is... not the candies.)

You'll recall that I reported a loud ticking noise--so persistent that it interfered with my sleep. Those 'ticks' were the candies, being bounced around inside the high pressure of the machine's inner chambers! Each fevered breath of "Sparks" sent these sticky rectangles caroming madly around. Finally, one of them became unwrapped, through the sheer force of impact. The rogue "Sundae" was forced through the high-pressure breathing duct. It lodged in "Sparks"' throat.

At 4 AM one morning, I awoke to a cacophony of squeaks, thumps and gasps. I sensed something was wrong with my friend and kindred spirit. I rushed into "Sparks"' room to find him purple-faced, contorting like a freshly hooked trout!

In my previous job, as insurance claims adjuster, I was officially trained in "CPR" for the office. Thus, I knew at once that the purple coloration was choking-related. I recalled the "Himlich Manuever" and quickly dislodged the tri-colored block from my friend's throat.

"Get me out of this monkey house," "Sparks" weakly gasped. Sadly, I could not find the opening to the accursed device's hatch. I did notice a large OFF button, and duly pressed it. "Sparks" immediately began to feel better. At his request, I got him a glass of buttermilk and sat with him, to be sure he was truly among the living.

There was no point in going back to sleep. Thus, "Sparks" and I greeted the dawn together. As is constant with our long friendship, the subject of panelology quickly surfaced. "Sparks" has been combing some of my panelological treasures for "forgotten diamonds." He had perused a run of Captain Aero comic magazines, in search of same. Among the lackluster Holyoke line of magazines, it did not yield much of interest.

Until issue 11. Hidden in the back of the magazine was an obscure hero, in his equally shrouded wartime adventure. I find, in general, a lack of interest in wartime comic magazines. The jingoism of the war agenda reduced the universe of boundless fantasy to a drab simulacrum of real life. How disappointed 1940s readers must have been by this change!

The Period of Greatness in panelology, for me, extends from 1937 to 1942. In those six years, the comic magazine was born, struggled through its growing pains, and soared to sublime heights in 1939 and 1940. Because of publishing schedule lags, the impact of the Pearl Harbor attack--and America's plunge into combat--did not immediately surface in the pages of our comic magazines. But by 1942's end, almost all the fantasy and imagination had been bruited out of panelology. Nazi dictators replaced the phantoms, monsters and scientific fiends who so genuinely embodied evil and so menaced the righteous crusaders of good.

The loss was palpable, and to my viewpoint, permanent. Although I do find some mild enjoyment in post-war comic magazines, it is a decidedly muted thrill. Thus, my post-1942 magazines are place-holders, rather than treasures.

Still, some imaginations couldn't be curdled by world events. Every now and again, a little zircon would emerge from pulp pages that once bore diamonds, rubies and emeralds. Today's brief offering is one such synthetic diamond on paper.

"This one's a corker, Mace," "Sparks" croaked. He insisted I read the story out loud. As I read, he cackled, chortled and applauded the story's events. Immediately, I knew I must make this the next sharing on this "blog."

Later that day, as I attempted to total the day's receipts (Raphael's cashiering still leaves much to be desired, although his steadfastness, personal charm and appeal continue to make our little bistro successful), Dorrie came up to me with a newspaper. She looked upset, her face paled.

Longtime "Bloggers" may recall my memories of high-school friend, Russ "Rusty" Gortner. "Rusty" was an admirer of the British Invasion duo of "Peter and Gordon." In fact, we fashioned our own musical "act" based on them, called "Mason and Rusty." We were both caught in the thrall of "Bealtemania" and immediately learned how to strum a guitar. We also attempted to grow our hair out. It took much careful combing to hide our hair growth from parents and teachers.

"Mason and Rusty" never got beyond a couple of high-school talent contests, but we enjoyed our attempts to re-create the delightful sounds of our English idols. After high school, we inevitably drifted apart. "Rusty" was drafted, and did three tours of duty in Vietnam. I kept in touch with him via postcards and the rare international phone call. But by 1973, "Rusty" was out of touch.

I always wondered what happened to my friend of times bygone. Well, on that afternoon, I found out. The newspaper reported "Rusty"'s death in an interstate trucking accident. Embittered by foot problems he gained in the war, "Rusty" became a truck driver. Coast-to-coast treks were his stock in trade. According to the article, hauling livestock was his specialty.

"Rusty" died as he worked. Driving a truckload of quail into Fresno (for eventual consumption at the popular chain of family restaurants, "Quail Hut"), he lost control of his "big rig" and tumbled down a steep desert chasm. "Rusty" died in the desert sun. None of the quail died in the accident. They scattered into the desert, spared from death on the dinner plate.

As said, I was long out of touch with "Rusty," but his memory stood within me. It was hard to know what--or how--to feel. Yet sadness gripped me. Then the truth of panelology again struck like lightning. The irony shall be immediately evident upon your perusal of the first frame of this graphic adventure. Read on, dear visitor...

One hesitates to assign too much significance to any post-1942 panelological piece. Yet this unknown, un-appreciated "Flagman and Rusty" conveys the breathless sense of wonder--and abandon--that categorized comic magazine stories from the Period of Greatness.

Writer/artist Herman Tesh labored anonymously in the back pages of many comic magazines. His colleagues teasingly nick-named him "Bookback" as his work never graced the front pages of any publication. Tesh was responsible for dozens of minor features such as "Little Otto," "Mazurka the Mystic," "Bob Mifflin, Air Ace" and the single-page filler features "Officer McBeat" and "Orchestral Ollie." Tesh was equally adept in realism and cartoon comedy, and often created 40 to 50 pages of published material each month.

Tesh never signed his name to his work, never won any awards, and is not cited as an influence of any contemporary panelologists. Yet the Herman Teshes of the world were the backbone of the comic magazine industry. Without Tesh and his ilk, publishers would have run short of material, and probably resorted to reprints and longer text pieces.

As is overwhelmingly evident, Tesh understood what made for a "good read." I delight in his whimsical approach to the deadly-serious war propaganda. His Hitler and Mussolini are chucklesome characters-- a far cry from the murderous tyrants they were in reality. Tesh was ahead of the curve in his use of a killer gorilla.

This theme is, perhaps, Tesh's lasting legacy to the art panelologic. Prior to Tesh, the gorilla was merely a comical figure in panelology. Tesh made this primate a hairy threat to hero and heroine alike. I detect a tongue planted firmly in cheek through this "Flagman" tale--yet it never backs away from thrills and derring-do.

Now that "Sparks" is doing better, I've urged him to explore more post-1942 magazines. Perhaps he will unearth more surprises such as this piece.

By the way, we found 113 "Neopolitan Sundae" candies, a sack full of "Butterscotch Discs" and several issues of Jet magazine inside "Sparks"' breathing apparatus. The Jets were all 1975 issues. Perhaps the candies were of similar vintage. "Sparks" insisted on keeping the candies in his room. I suspect he has been snacking on them himself. To each his own, as it is said...

And Thus, A New Era Begins!

2010-08-27T09:13:00.000-07:00

Dearest friends,

Salutations and humble apologies for my long absence from these plains. 'Tis a time of great industry and joy in the Moray homestead. Dorrie's Diner thrives, even in these grim days of economic despair.

Business booms for us; thus we have added a veranda for outdoor dining. This veranda occupies much of the back yard. Alas, the Former Pantheon had to be uprooted. I planned to have it towed to the county junk yard. Burt Liffler, always puttering aimlessly in his alleged garden, got wind of my plans and cornered me, prior to the expulsion.

"It's just the thing for my tools," he repeated. "I'll pay you for it."

"Nonsense, neighbor," I sighed, "it is yours for the asking."

"Please let me pay you 20 dollars, Mason."

"It's yours, free of charge."

"25 dollars. You drive a hard bargain..."

"I repeat: the shed is yours, free and clear. No payment required."

Mister Liffler finally pressed two 20-dollar bills in my palm and trotted away with glee. I could not return the monies to him. Thus, I considered it a donation to the New Pantheon. 'Twas well spent on archival backing boards and acid-free comic book bags. A few of my pre-1940 titles are in dire need of a new set of "duds." Comic book bags were made of crude polystyrenes in the early 1970s. Time has not been kind to them. They have yellowed and withered, like the sere flesh of a sunbaked crone.

Where was I? Oh, yes--the veranda. It is a sea of maroon-hued cedar planks, decorated with merry dots and dashes--themselves the artistry of Ray-Don, our village's supreme aesthete. The initial expenses of new furniture, umbrellas for daytime dining, and a smattering of tropical plants (the better to give the layout that Southern Pacific "vibe") have all but been paid for by our increased patronage.

I've not had as much time to spend in the glory of the New Panthron as I would like. A booming business means increased responsibilities! My role as manager demands that I do the nightly accounting. Raphael is a dear lad, but his increased role as waitstaff-cashier has not been Dorrie's finest hour as a decision-maker.

I fear the young man has a slight case of dsylexia. He tends to swap out numbers. An entree priced at $7.50 will be rung up as $5.70 or $7.05. Our master receipt is number-coded as to each specific item. Thus, I can, at a glance, detect which entree was purchased. Typically, we either have a slight overage or a noticeable shortage.

To this end, I am in the process of converting the cash register to a series of numbered keys. Dorrie's Sophisticated Sass Omelet, for example, is item 28 on the numeric list. On the keypad proper, its number is 82. This accommodates Raphael's vision problem and assures less accounting time for yours truly.

I write this missive, so long overdue, from the cool shelter of the New Pantheon. You may recall that, in my prior post, I reported odd vibrations and accompanying noises issuing from somewhere in the storage facility. As a lifelong panelologist, I am something of an armchair sleuth. I ventured deep into the subterranean bowels of storage to further investigate this phenomenon.

I located its source. In the sub-sub basement, back in a dark corridor, is a room even a blind man could locate. For the smell of peanuts--fresh, rich peanuts--suffuses the very air.

On the door is a hand-lettered sign that reads:

BUTTER-KING DO NOT KNOCK

The door's edges, near its rusted knob, are smeared with an ochre goo. From within comes a great grinding and jolting vibrations. Friends, we have an illegal manufacturer of peanut butter on the premises! I should be fair; perhaps they have obtained a legal business permit. This I know not as of yet.

It poses no threat to me or to the contents of the New Pantheon. I don't believe peanut butter is flammable or airborne.

Speaking of flames: today's offering is thematically linked. Today's post, in deed, contains two full-length paneological stunners from the same 1940 comic magazine. The second issue of Wham Comics, published in those wild "fronteir days" before the second World War, offers a brace of astounding four-color fascinations. I share with you today its two top features: "Blue Flame" and "Solarman."

I have more news to share, but shall wait until after today's festivities commence. We must have our panelological studies, mustn't we?

The greatest thrill of a vintage comic magazine its is bold, emblazoned cover. Such vivid hues! Such promising scenes--a moment forever frozen in permanent time. How I pity those whose pitch does not quicken at such a grand, glorious sight:

For once, the contents build upon the eternal promise of hope given us by this spectacular cover. All features in Wham Comics are top-flight panelology. I shall mete these out so that you and I might better savor their superior charms.

Lew Glanz (with uncredited writer Sherm Blystock) created the most unusual--dare I say surreal?--(I dare!) BLUE FIRE. 'Tis among the most distinctive and imaginative costumed-crusader features of the American comic magazine, circa 1940...

I was fortunate to speak with Sherm Blystock in 1973. I tracked him down to a retirement home in Palisades Park, New Jersey. Mr. Blystock was still "with it," and offered this sardonic view of what most panelologists would regard as his mangum opus:

MYSELF: Now, onto the BLUE FLAME...

BLYSTOCK: No, no! It's BLUE FIRE.

Oh, oh, yes. Fire, not flame. As I'm sure you realize, this was among the more unusual super-hero features of its time.

(laughs) It was OK, I guess...

What divine burst of inspiration gave birth to this creation?

(chuckles sardonically) The gas bill.

Beg pardon?

I needed money to pay the gas bill. We'd just gotten married, and a kid was on the way. Winter was coming on, and we needed the heat.

(puzzled) Gas bill...

You know... the gas has a blue flame. I kept staring at the pilot light. It was the middle of the night. I was up with indigestion--those clams weren't so fresh. I needed some sure-fire money. I'd written for the funnies before... KOGAR, STRETCH ROBINSON, ACE BRANSON. Pretty standard stuff. But I knew I needed something new. Something different.

That pilot light on the stove. It was so blue and bright. And I got it in my thick skull that a fellow who could master that blue flame might make a pretty good character. I got out my pencil and pad and by morning I had the idea down and a couple of stories mapped out.

The blue flame...

No, no! BLUE FIRE!

Oh. Yes...

The interview ended abruptly with a call for luncheon. Blystock was wheeled away by a male nurse. I never saw or spoke to him again.

Frank Thomas was a heavy-weight in the comic magazine field for many years. Although he later specialized in "cartoon critter" features for Dell Comics, an early forte was his imaginative, boldly designed super-hero and action stories, including the stylish (dare I say chic?) Solarman.

I don't usually feature such "big lights" as Thomas herein. As you know well, I prefer the underdogs of panelology. But a tale as good and as startling as this must be seen again. And thus it is!

'Twould seem that two features as strong and graceful as these were "shoe-ins" for long-term success. Alas, Wham Comics went the way of so many colorful, promising titles in the wild and woolly early days of the genre. As you'll no doubt agree, it was the world's loss (and ours as well.)

And now that news I alluded to earlier...

"Sparks" Spinkle has taken ill. He has always been a bit on the delicate side--a truth he would deny vociferously! He is a spry, bird-like fellow, quick-witted and possessed of great vitality, even as he approaches 70 years.

However, he has always suffered from asthma, and in the autumn of his years, this condition has worsened. "Sparks" and I were struggling to master Power-Point, the better to prepare a presentation on panelology for the local Shriners group. In the midst of a heated discussion over The Star-Spangled Kid (I despise the feature; "Sparks" adores it), he suddenly collapsed in a wheezing, gasping heap.

We rushed him to the Emberton Memorial Emergency Medical Centre Pavillion. I feared the worst. Dorrie and I spent the greater part of that evening in the waiting room, me pacing nervously, she napping quietly.

The news eventually came: "Sparks" has a partially collapsed lung! The doctor implored us to see that he has three months of bed-rest. We have installed a special breathing apparatus (which "Sparks"' insurance, thankfully, paid for in full). The machine is painted red and blue. It ticks loudly and irregularly. The ticking has made my sleep fitful of late. The ticks are joined by a raspy sound rather like a fingernail running up and down the bottom string of a bass fiddle. (That, you see, is my friend's inhalation and exhalation, aided by the ticking gadget.)

Night before last, "Sparks" called me into his room. He bade me sit down by his bed. "Mace," he said, "as you know, I've been doing what little I can to make sure this fine town is crime-free. Doc says it's three months of lay-down for me. Can't get out and patrol the streets like I used to."

I started to speak. "No, no, I know you're against it. But you have to admit I've made a difference around here as 'Super-Senior.'"

I nodded. I didn't know what else to do.

"Without me, this burg's gonna go back to its lawless ways. Listen--do a pal a favor."

"Y-yes...?"

"Go out at night. Just make sure everything's OK. You'll find my crime-fighting kit out on the carport. It's in a big Ross Dress-For-Less bag."

"B-but I can't... it's not..."

"Mace, I've been there for you. More times than I can remember. And now I'm asking you to be there for me..."

A tear welled up in my friend's eye. It trickled down his face. He sniffed once, patted me weakly on my arm, and then attached the breathing tube to his nose and mouth. To the tune of ticking and rasping, I left his room.

So far, I have made three patrols of our fair city. Not in costume, and not on foot. I've taken slow drives through the main streets, at 10 miles an hour, in search of malfeasance. I did catch one ne'er-do-well who took two newspapers for the price of one. I honked my horn at him, opened the window, and wagged my finger in his direction. I hope he was reformed.

Well, 'tis late and the vibrating of "BUTTER-KING" has commenced. I suppose it's time that I head out and give the streets a "once-over." Crime never sleeps, but "Sparks" rests soundly in the knowledge that I am, albeit reluctantly, carrying on his noble cause. Wish me luck, my comrades in comic book artistry...

Oh, Glory Day! Wondrous News, Dear Reader! Read On...

2010-07-11T18:36:00.000-07:00

My time of woe is at last over, friends! Who says real life does not have a "happy ending?" In this case, good has triumped over evil!

Today is my 61st birthday. It began, as have all my birthdays since my union with Dorrie, with her preparation of my official birthday breakfast, "The Leaning Tower of Pancakes." Dorrie is part chef, part artist. She uses nut wedges, whipped cream and strawberries to build the support structure for a vertiginous tower of flapjacks, each one canted a few millimeters here and there.

The visual effect is a stunner. When pancake syrup is poured over the top, the 'waterfall' effect is a real doozie. It's almost too pretty to eat. But when you consider what goodies Dorrie mixes into the pancake batter--mini-marshmallows, minced walnuts, maraschino cherries, plain croûtons (for an added crunch) and bits of Heath bars (finely smashed)--admiring it as art is, plain and simple, out of the question!

"What are you going to do today, Mace?" my dear betrothed asked from across the table.

"I think I shall index the later issues of.... of..." I sighed and dropped my fork. "I beg your pardon, Dorrie. I fear I've lost my appetite." I scooted my chair back from the breakfast nook table, and promptly banged my head on a wall bracket.

"Poor Mace," my wife said, as she soothed me. "Poor Mace. You've suffered so much... well, we're going on a little field trip today. It'll be just the thing to cure your blues. Now eat up..."

She handed me the fork, and somehow, I fought back the tears. I found the courage to plunge that fork into the tower of pancakes, and take the first savory bite...

Many, many bites later, with a final, refreshing mug of coffee, I was ready to bathe, shave and face the world on this, the first day of my 61st year 'pon this green Earth.

In the shower, as I sang a Peter and Gordon favorite, "You Don't Have To Tell Me" (a choice track from their first American album, World Without Love), I had what some would call an epihpany:

I've spent my whole adult life compiling a remarkable gatherum of panelological masterworks. Perhaps now is the time to let them go... to simply cherish their memories. For you see, each story is emblazoned in my heart... printed on the four-color press of my soul onto the fabric of my personal universe. Perhaps 'tis best to hold these visual wonders in my heart...

Tears streamed down my face as the impact of this thought washed over me. Here was I, so heart-sick for so long. I still had some 800 of my favorite panelological treasures--with the mysterious return of box C-14 (as documented in my most recent posting here).

My mind still teemed from the recent demands of my collection's captors. Heaven knows, I've suffered a barrage of verbal slings and arrows since the forced posting of the abominable work of Lee Sherman. I have been called everything from a "gadfly" to "a pitiable, foolish, foolish man" by my detractors. You, my dear friends who remain, know that 'twas not my choice to publish that gutter rubbish of last time. I do hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me...

But I digress. Aglow from my insight, I toweled off and dressed. I wondered what Dorrrie had planned for this special day. A picnic? A day of "garage sale-ing?" Mine was the fate of those who sit and wait...

Dressed and ready for the day, I re-entered the living room. Dorrie was dressed, too--in a very chic pants suit. I knew this must be a special occasion. "Got all your things?"

I gathered my wallet, keys and such from the bureau. Then I saw this key, which you'll remember from a few posts back:

"Accursed thing!" I shouted. "Abomination! Mocking me with your riddle!" I hurled the key in the waste-basket to the right of the bureau.

"We may need that," Dorrie said. She retreived the key and pocketed it. With a smile, she led me out into the sunny, bright Sunday morning.

Something suddenly struck me: Dorrie was not going to church! I thought better of "making issues" of this most unusual behavior. Perhaps she felt that this, being my birthday, was a sufficient excuse to not attend her house of worship. If so, I was deeply honored. My wife is rather devout in her beliefs.

" Would you drive, Mace?" Dorrie asked as we approached the Prias.

As we left our driveway, "the missus" b egan a series of confounding directions. "Turn right here... go under the Westridge overpass... take Charnel Street down past the Arby's drive-through..." and so on. I soon had no idea where I was. I was in a part of town I'd never before seen.

Finally, I was instructed to park in the lot of Hal's Hide-A-Way Secure Storage. The exterior of the building, painted robin's-egg blue, looked like some merry prison.

Indeed, the imposing, towering structure had an armed guard--Sal Sharpley, a fellow "panelologist." Sal's specialty is the 1940s "Green Arrow," as ably delineated by George Papp.

Sal, in his too-large security guard "threads," nodded amiably. "Mason! Good to see you, buddy."

"Did you ever locate issue 96 of More Fun Comics?" I thoughtfuly inquired.

Sal chuckled. "You remembered! Nope, still looking for that one darned issue. That'll complete my 'Arrow' run. Come on in, folks."

Sal pressed a keypad. After a battery of bloops and bleeps, we were admitted to the inner sanctum of this cheerless citadel. Sal trailed behind us. Our heels clicked down the echoey corridor.

Suddenly, a thought struck like thunder:

Sal Sharpply lives in Cincinatti, Ohio!

I turned to confront him. "Sal! Y-you're not--"

Sal brandished his gun. "Uh uh, Mace. Just keep walking." He patted me on the back.

We turned a corner. At the end of a narrow, dimly lit corridor was an elevator. "Get in," Sal said. We did as told.

Sal punched the button for the fifth floor. With a shuddering shake, up we went. I could hear Sal's nostrils whistle as he breathed the stale air of the elevator.

The door lumbered open. At my feet was my treasured copy of Science Comics #4!

A trail of other cherished panelological gems led down a long, shadowy hall. "Wh-what on earth..." I cried. My heart pounded 'neath my chest.

"Pick 'em up and keep walking," Sal snarled. I bent down and retrieved one dear four-color friend after another. I cradled them in my arms, so happy to see them yet so puzzled as to why they were here, and why I was here...

The trail ended in front of a door, with a proud pile of my beloved Wonderworld Comics! Home of William Eisner's stunning "Yarko" and Louis Fine's elegaic "Flame!"

Dorrie pressed the key in my sweaty palms. "Open the door," she said. Sal grinned like a banshee. Friends, I was afraid. Had even my own wife turned against me?

I was so nervous I had difficulty inserting the key into the lock. But finally I opened the door. With great caution, I stepped slowly into the darkened room....

SURPRISE!!!!!

Lights blazed on into a cacophony of color, sound and faces. Friends, fellow panelologists, neighbors, and even my step-brother Frederic were all there, all smiling, and all cheering my name!

The fellow named "Ray-Don" greeted me. "How do you like it, Mason?"

I looked around the room. A neat set of shelves contained... my panelological treasures! Each and every carton of wonder, as neatly arranged as one could wish for!

On the walls were expertly painted reproductions of panels from some of my favorite features: "Shock Gibson," "Mars Mason," "Strongman," Navy U.S. Jones," et all. On the background of the circus-colored walls were emblazoned various panelological sound effects. It was done with a skillful hand, and it must have taken hours of work to render these scenes with such expertise.

I was guided to the most comfortable arm-chair I've ever sat in. It faced a simple, tasteful desk upon which stood a new computer and scanner--plus the loose-leaf volumes of my panelology notes.

"Welcome to the New Pantheon, Mr. Moray!" a familiar voice crowed.

"Si, Senor Moray," another recognizable voice said. "Espero que este lugar especial agrada usted!"

It was "Sparks" Spinkle and Raphael--dressed in their crime-fighting guises of "Super Senior" and his sidekick "Equis!"

"Sorry 'Sparks' and Raphael couldn't attend this shebang," "Super-Senior" said. "They're, uh..."

"Away on important business," "Equis" said.

"Yep, off on important business. But they sent this card. Heck, everyone chipped in on it."

It was an unusually large greeting card--the exact size of a Golden Age comic magazine. The 'cover' of the card was an issue of MORAY COMICS, lettered somewhat in the style of WHIZ COMICS. A depiction of yours truly, standing in the very room I was in, holding a pile of beloved comic magazines, was flanked by a blazing legend:

MASON MORAY AND THE NEW PANTHEON!

Inside was this inscription:

Dearest Husband, Dearest Friend:

Thank you for helping me to realize a life-long dream. Dorrie's Diner is a big success--we couldn't have done it without you! You deserved better than that old battered shed in the backyard. Here is your inner sanctum--a place to call your own, where your collection is safe and sound. Believe it or not, it's within walking distance of the house! (Tee-hee!)

Below this were a gaggle of signed names. As all burst into a rendition of "Happy Birthday," a giant cake was wheeled into the New Pantheon. I'm not ashamed to admit that I burst out into tears--surrounded by so much friendship, such love, and such reverence!

The whole saga rushes back in my memory--the mysterious fire at Ngo's Snak-Shak; the lengthy bacchanal on our street; the synchronous dissapearance of my collection at that same time...

"Super-Senior!" I shouted. "Did you, or did you not, have a hand in that fire?"

"Sparks" looked at me in puzzlement. "What fire?"

"The fire," I said. I gestured with open palms. "The... fire..."

A glint of memory came into his masked eyes. "Oh, oh oh oh! THAT fire!" He chuckled. "I can't lie, Mr. Moray. Me and my sidekick here, we... we kind of encouraged it along a bit."

"Big barrel," "Equis" said, "of animal fats behind the shack. Ignites very well..."

"B-but this was arson! And you were all accomplices to this crime?"

Dorrie laughed. "The police shut that place down. No one was in there."

"It wasn't even an official building," Raydon explained. "They didn't have a permit, or nothin'."

"It was a convenient way," "Super-Senior" continued, "of getting you distracted long enough to move your collection to this new location. No crime was committed. If 'Sparks' and Raphael were here, they could explain."

"Let's cut the cake," Sal Sharpley and Bart Jaffney (owner of Killer Komix!) cried in unison.

As the cake was cut (presided upon by the garrulous Burt Liffler, my next-door neighbor), my first thought was to give something back to the friends that had made this nightmare end.

I dashed for box V-14, rifled through it, and retrieved my copy of More Fun #96. I pressed it into Sal Sharpley's hands. "Now your collection is complete."

Sal's jaw dropped. "I... I can't believe it..." He broke into tears. "I never thought this day would come..."

To the tune of Peter and Gordon's "Nobody I Know," the party began. Friends, it was an hour or two of utter merriment. "Super-Senior" and "Equis" quickly excused themselves. A few minutes later, "Sparks" and Raphael happened to show up.

"Well, that important business is all taken care of," "Sparks" said.

"Si, all is taken care of," Raphael echoed. The two shared a quiet chuckle and helped themselves to cake and punch.

"Sparks" became the emcee of the soiree. First, he regaled us all with the story of the New Pantheon. It was his idea. He'd taken note of the disrepair of the Former Pantheon, and worried for the safety of my treasures.

With Dorrie's Diner a booming success, he consulted with all my friends and loved ones to "chip in" for the monthly rental of a climate-controlled storage space. Furthermore, it would be designed as my panelological citadel--a place where I could continue my deeper studies of this art-form without arousing Dorrie's allergies.

"Sorry to put you through so much worry, buddy," "Sparks" said. "But there's no other way we could have gotten these babies to their new home. Boy, if only these comic books could talk!""

He opened box B-6 and retrieved my copy of Leading Comics #2. "Remember when you got this one?" He told its "origin story." I spotted it at a flea market in Ohio in 1977. A little girl wanted to buy it (the asking price: a mere quarter!), and grabbed it first. I had to purchase a heaping stack of Little Lottas (at three dollars!) to trade her for this invaluable example of the art and story of John Lehti.

"Doggoned kid went and put those Lottas on sale! She sold 'em all at a handsome profit--but Maceroonie still got the best of her!"

He kept the crowd enrapt with selections from my collection, each endowed with a colorful anecdote of when--and where--I acquired them. Even I was "wowed" by some of my past wheeling and dealing.

Them, by request, "Sparks" and I enacted one of my favorite "Yarko" tales, from Wonderworld issue 5. "Sparks" depicted Vladim, the evil genius, whilst I portrayed the inimitable Yarko. "Raydon" joined us to portray the incidental characters, including the nameless woman who is saved from voodoo doom.

I'll present the brilliant William Eisner story here as a "capper" and as a souvenir of this wonderful day of my blessed life:

What a masterwork! Our impromptu reading (a re-creation of one presented at the 1974 ThunderCon in Wheeling, West Virginia) received voluminous applause. I approached Raydon and said to him:

"Son, I have seriously mis-judged you. You are a profoundly talented artist and designer, and I approve of your alternative lifestyle. You are always welcome here and in my home."

Raydon kissed me on the cheek--to the roaring approval of all gathered!

I did take the moment to ask Raydon why he selected those horrible Lee Sherman stories for my prior post? His answer: "They're just so icky. I mean, look at them. A blind man could have done better." (Little does this young roisterer know the truth of his statement!)

Apparently, such dross is celebrated in certain quarters. You, dear faithful friend, have my iron-clad assurance: only the finest in panelological story and art shall appear here from now on! I trust today's offering will do much to "settle the balance."

Later, I had a brief chat with my step-brother. Friends, I don't believe I've mentioned him heretofore. Frederic does not share my passion for the arts panelological, but he recognizes the financial worth of these vintage publications. He works as an investor, or regulator, or some such position.

He refers to the Pantheon's holdings as "a nice portfolio," which I suppose it is. Try as I may, I cannot warm entirely to Frederic. I was secretly amused to see Burt Liffler corner him, later in the party, with his unending chitter-chat about this, that, and the other.

The party is over. Indeed, friends, the nightmare of the last three miserable months has ceased! I write this from the New Pantheon, which is, indeed, a mere four blocks from the house. (That was some route Dorrie took me on in the car--the trickster!) The New Pantheon is air-conditioned, and even has "wire-fi" internet service.

I have begun to notice a slight electronic buzzing sound, accompanied by barely-perceptible vibrations, coming from somewhere within this building. Perhaps it is the workings of the "boiler room," or some such place, deep in the bowels of this fortress. The buzzing is just noticeable enough to bother me, if I take notice of it.

But with the music turned up loud enough, I don't notice the buzz. The pulsing is forceful enough to cause me to take notice. It poses no apparent threat to the New Pantheon's holdings. The music, itself, does make it rather hard to concentrate or write. I suppose I shall soon become accustomed to this, and shan't even notice it in the future.

This is a beginning of a new, and greater era, for the Panelological Pantheon! Hurrah! Cheers! Let the new millenium begin!

The Last Straw: In Which Desperate Measures Are Taken

2010-06-25T16:24:00.000-07:00

Friends, I am tired of this inestimable, gnawing weariness. Tired of awaking in the darkest hours before the dawn, gripped with anxious fear. My worry for the fate of my treasured collection distracts me from the simple workaway pleasures of daily life.

Earlier today, customers at Dorrie's Diner became exasperated with my preoccupation. "Move it, doorstop!" one old gruff gent crowed at me. I was, indeed, standing in front of the door, blocking his exit. I longed to see again my near-complete run of the Fox Science Comics... to smell the fragrant pulp paper stock of the Nedor issues of 1941... to view the stunning early work of Vernon Henkel.

Of course, none of these things are communicable to the "Lay Man." To them, "funny books" are detritus on the trash-heap of life. Far inferior to their preferred TV "sit-coms," trashy best-seller novels, their video-games, X-Boxers and such.

I'm singing to the choir with these grousings, I'm all too aware. It would appear that my collection is intact and safe, in the mysterious hands of whomever thieved them from the Former Pantheon.

Eerie clues continue to come my way. Last week, I received a post-card (which I have since burned in a fit of pique). Scrawled across it was the enigmatic message PS -- ROADWAY -- A117, followed by a row of "smiley face" stickers.

The next day, another card arrived, which simply stated: GOT THE KEY? GOT THE CLUE!

That card is being held by the local police, for finger-print sampling and such. I do, indeed, have that curious key. I carry it with me at all times, even when I sleep.

Late last night, a feeble tapping roused me from uncertain sleep. Dorrie was "out with the lights" from a busy day's Diner work, followed by a rousing Scrabble play-off at her church. She didn't notice that I left the bed, donned my robe, found my slippers, and shuffled off towards the front door.

I peered out the front window. I saw shadowy figures moving in the distance. By the time I unlatched, unlocked and opened the door, they were but faint foot-steps in the misty night. On the front porch was a shocking surprise-- box C-14, its contents (a solid run of early Speed Comics, plus a few issues of Sensation and Shield-Wizard) intact!

Taped to the underside of the box's lid was a Manilla envelope. A loud tick issued from within. Fearlessly, I tore open the flap. A small desk clock fell out. Tied to it was a distressing note:

I am powerless to defy them. I apologize for the remainder of today's post. These are, quite possibly, the ugliest, most terrible comic-book stories ever perpetrated on a miserable public. The comic magazine in question is an early effort of the moribund Charlton imprint: A dreadful magazine entitled Jack in the Box Comics.

The fiends deliberately picked these stories, as they go against my good taste and intelligence. If it means the return of my treasured collection, then so be it. But note, you scoundrels, that I only do this because I must.

Here, then, is a selection of execrable stories illustrated by one "Lee Sherman," from issue 15 of this highly regrettable comic magazine.

I hope you are happy, you fiends. To my true friends, I apologize profusely. I do not publish garbage on this "blog"--only the utmost best in panelological material.

I trust that, by fulfilling my end of the bargain, that I shall be in possession of the comic magazines (which are, after all, rightfully MINE) and that this wretched, brutalizing episode shall fade into distant history.

Tell me, you monsters--which door does the key open?

Our 30th Post: Featuring The "Final Gasp" of "Yank and Doodle"

2010-05-30T12:51:00.000-07:00

Friends, please pardon my touch of melancholy. For, you see, I am betwixt the devil and the blue deep sea. I'm in a terrible quandary.

As you might surmise well, my beloved panelological treasures have yet to surface. Despite a tri-state dragnet of all comic book shops, thrift stores, and whatnot, the heisted boxes--all easily recognizable by their careful codes, written in bold laundry marker--remain in limbo.

I am consigned to the small but potent stack of panelological gems that remain in my hands--under the ever-watchful watch of "Sparks" Spinkle.

I am, however, closer to the truth than I have been thus far. Two potent clues came into my possession this past week--clues that have spurred me out of a nearly month-long "fonk" to write you, my dear friends, another missive.

Perhaps you may recall the unwelcome presence of a foppish flibbertigibbet named "Raydon?" That glad-handing rascal has appeared twice this week at Dorrie's Diner--each time with a coterie of similarly gaudy (and grating) companions. Dorrie made their first visit "on the house." I forbade such mollycoddling on their return, two days later.

"Raydon" and his comperes paid the bill without hesitation. He complemented me on the "fine upkeep" of "his" bistro. (As you shall recall, the young strumpet "designed" the premises of the Diner, to the unending delight of "the missus." Thus, your reporter has been obliged to "keep clammed" about his two cents' of opinion.

How I detest the purplish hue of scarlet that adorns the Diner's walls! I much prefer the classic "tomato red." Some days, the sight of that nearly-purple red is enough to put me in a foul mood, even if I am otherwise chipper and cheerful.

A half hour after his entourage departed the premises, I conducted a routine sweep-up of the area near the cash register. On the ground, I found a curious thing:

The next morning, as I went for the daily newspaper, I found Post-It Notes stuck all over my car, the driveway, and our mailbox.

On each of the notes was the number of one of the purloined boxes of comic magazines! P23! B17! Q02! K59! And so on. Each scrawled note sent a new chill down my spine. A quick reference of my Master List (which resides in a series of three-ring binders) confirmed that all 37 of the Post-It Notes corresponded with one missing box of comic magazines.

And then, this morning, the greatest shock of all. Stuffed inside our Sunday paper was my copy of Prize Comics #68. Not a particularly lustrous item--it was the final issue of the series, before its dire conversion to a Western comic magazine. I have a complete run of the original 68-issue Prize series--or, rather, I had a complete run.

It was indeed my copy--it bore my mark on the front inside page.

Someone in the know is teasing me with these clues!

Most curious of all was this piece of note-paper, tucked into the comic magazine, right at the start page of today's panelological offering:

This note appears to indicate that the comic magazines are unharmed. But who wrote it? And, most importantly, who crept in the pre-dawn hush to insert note and magazine both into our Sunday newspaper?

Just to acknowledge a new play in this intellecutal chess game, I shall endeavor to present the very story the thieves marked with their naughty note! Here, then, is the final appearance of the heavily-buttocked teenage crime-fighting duo, "Yank and Doodle." You will note that, although the logo boasts that the series is "STARRING The BLACK OWL," that he does not appear until the last panel, and most certainly not in his action togs.

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As you may have anticipated, there is a sad and curious story about this story. Like many of the last "Yank and Doodle" pieces, this was written and drawn by a shadowy figure of the late "Golden Age" of panelology--Sheff Rutledge.

Rutledge was a painter and illustrator who struggled to find his footing in the world of the comic magazines. His first published efforts were in what were called "he-men sweat mags--" hyper-masculine adventure pulps with such titles as Turgid Youth, Throbbing Male Action and Sweat-Soaked Man Tales.

These magazines would probably be termed as "home-erotic" by today's standards. They catered to a presumed audience of masculine men who wished to read--and see detailed illustrations of--stories about other masculine men. This trend ebbed with the onset of World War II.

Some of the titles, having a small but loyal readership, struggled on through the 1940s. Seldom were they found on news stands. Their readership was almost 100% subscriber-based. Sheff Rutledge was the star artist of this little-known genre.

As the size of these magazines shrunk--to conform to stringent wartime postal regulations--their content became more tawdry and suggestive. Rutledge soldiered on, painting and drawing ever-provocative pieces for the likes of Steel Piston Adventures, Man Cannon! and Army Buddies After Hours.

On the side, Rutledge wandered into the margins of the mainstream comic magazines. He was a great admirer of the works of Joseph Simon and Jack Kirby. One can easily see their influence on Sheffield's page layout, and even in his drawing.

Where Rutledge departed from Simon and Kirby was in his lush, lovingly detailed renditions of the male "keester." This was considered taboo territory in the comic book industry. As early as 1940, accusations of a hidden "gay" agenda had been hurled at comics publishers. Artists such as Louis Fine, George Tuska and Reed Crandall certainly glorified the male physique in their panelological renderings. But there was no "agenda" in 1940s comic magazines to speak of.

Nonetheless, Rutledge's attention to details--not only in the rear ends of his heavily-muscled heroes, but in their "below the belt" region--brought some minor scandal to the latter days of Prize Comics.

However, Rutledge got off "scott free" with his panelological efforts. It was his material in the "he-men sweat mags" that ended his career.

In 1950, the publisher of many of these "men's magazines," Aesthete Press, was shuttered by J. Edgar Hoover. Many of the regular contributors to these publications--including Sheff Rutledge--were imprisoned for "conspiring to create reading matter of a possibly suggestive nature, sold through the federal mails to unwed middle-aged males." Rutledge served 23 years in prison. The law was informally known as the "Rutledge charge."

Upon his release from prison in 1973, Rutledge attempted to return to the comic magazine field. Under an alias, he briefly found work with Harvey Comics. His past caught up with him, and he was relieved of his duties. Nothing is known of his whereabouts after 1975. It is possible Rutledge is still alive.

Despite the curious, slightly disturbing nature of Rutledge's imagery, one cannot deny that he was a dynamic Kirby-inspired panelologist. If there were a category of "good rear art," Rutledge would, surely, be considered its Frank Frazetta, or Norman Rockwell!

In closing, I say to my apparently playful thieves: I double-dog-dare you to leave more comic magazines--and clues--at my home! Be brazen; be ruthless! But be aware that I am as wily as you, and as willing to play this deadly game--to its final round!

POST SCRIPT: I almost forgot to mention this--I have been asked, by a local order of the Shriners, to speak at their "lodge" about panelology in the not-too-distant future. "Sparks" Spinkle has been invited to "co-pilot" this appearance. (Speaking of "Sparks," my apologies for not discussing his crime-fighting exploits of late. That must be saved for our next "blogging.")

The Crisis Continues--With A Faint Ray of Hope! In Today's Post: The Stunning Original Tale of "Shock" Gibson, from Speed Comics 1, 1939!!!!

2010-05-02T11:57:00.000-07:00

Friends, I am still a broken man, and still without the bulk of my lifelong prize possessions. News of my disaster has spread far and near, and I have been showered with an outpouring of comfort and understanding from my friends, fans and followers in the panelological community.

As the saying goes, "A good man can't stay down!" In this spirit, I endeavor to present a spectacular posting today. Let the jackals who purlioned my dear comic magazines cackle with offensive glee! They didn't get them all--and they shan't!

Here, vile thieves, is one you left behind! You dropped this one--or didn't you notice? You missed one of the crown gems of the Former Pantheon--and one of the most stunning full-length narratives of the GPE (Gilded Panelological Era, 1937-1943).

Before we embark on this epic journey, I must make note of one communique that was left on my doorstep--two, in actuality. The first one is sweet; the second considerably bitter.

The first missive was from a tyke who lives on our block. She had heard about "the old man who lost his funny books," and she found it in her youthful heart to leave this message:

Attached to the message was a tattered copy of issue #17 of Little Dot's Aunts and Uncles. The thought was profound, and worth its weight in gold.

In the wake of this toddler's anonymous donation, a flurry of child artwork has appeared in our household--either left on our porch or solemnly delivered by grave tots, as was this hand-dispatched illustration:

It is genuinely sweet of these infants to offer their gentle tokens of honor.

A more haunting and puzzling visual note was left beneath a plate this week at Dorrie's Diner. On the plate itself, inscribed expertly in ketchup and mustard, was a large ?

Beneath the plate was found this image, clipped from a retail sales catalog:

I know not what this image bodes. It is, I assume, a Quonset hut. Is this a clue as to the current whereabouts of the Former Pantheon's holdings? Or is this, perhaps, a foreshadowing of a future version of the Pantheon? I have joshingly titled this piece "Pantheon II." In the hopes that the InterNet shall provide some light or leverage, I share this quiddity with you, my dear friends.

Tongues clucked and empathy was shared on my recent visit to Killer Komix!, while on an errand of mercy to obtain two containers of Wondra, the highly effective gravy-making product. "Too bad," a fellow named Lyle said, as he inspected the condition of a Charlton war comic magazine. "Theft is the worst fear we face in this racket. Is that Sam Glanzman?" He held the magazine towards me for inspection.

I am no expert in post-1950 panelology, but the image bore a large, bold signature, colored red: MILFORD. I pointed this telling clue to Lyle, who was thankful.

The shop's owner, Bart, assured me that he, and other significant panelologists in the Tri-States area, were keeping out an eagle eye for any signs of my collection's disbursement on Ebay, Heritage Comic Auctions, and other means of illegal panelological transport.

Curiously, "Super Senior" has been curiously silent of late. No newspaper items have documented his actions--not since the last clipping posted here (and that was some time ago). "Sparks" Spinkle shares my deep concern for the fate of my collection, and has placed what does remain--including Marilee's former holdings--under padlock and key in his room.

Meanwhile, in Diner news, Dorrie has introduced a breakfast novelty that has taken our customer base by storm--Jaguar Stripe Hotcakes! Their creation was a "divine accident." Some powdered orange food coloring, left over from last Halloween, spilled into a batch of hotcake batter. Because of a reaction between the powder and the batter, it did not mix evenly into the goo.

It emerged, in the cooked cakes, as visually delightful bold splotches--rather like the pattern of a jaguar's coat! I profusely apologized to the waiting diner who'd ordered his "cakes," only to find he was delighted by the presentation. "Jaguar stripes!" he cried.

I thought better than to correct his faux pas--and, thus, a breakfast sensation was born! They taste no different from any average hotcake, but, as the advertising agencies have taught us, presentation is everything. I'll let you friends in on a secret: Jaguar Stripe Hotcakes cost $1.50 more than regular hotcakes. The cost of the colored powder is minimal. People are willing to pay extra for orange splotches on their breakfast cakes!

Raphael informs me that a few customers have asked that their scrambled eggs also have "jaguar stripes" added to them. Dorrie's Diner may well be "in the orange"--all the way to the bank!

And now, with no further ado, is today's stunning panelological presentation. Here is the 26 page original origin tale of the wondrous 1939 creation, "Shock" Gibson! Maurice Scott was one of the earliest graphic novelists. He preferred to tell his tales in long, rich doses. When a full page was required for an action, he took that space--without resistance from either his publisher or editor. His secret? I'll tell you after you feast on this entree magnificent!

"Stunning... breath-taking...sweeping..." These and other laudatory adjectives still usher from the flabbergasted lips of the readers of Maurice Scott, some 70 years after the original publication of this early masterpiece of the GEP.

"'Shock' Gibson" engulfed almost half the pages of Speed Comics' premiere issue. This, in an era when most comic magazines sought to pack their pages with a quantity of various features. How--and why--did this title so go against the grain of the industry?

Maurice Scott's father owned the printing presses upon which Speed Comics was published! Young Maurice had a compulsive need to constantly draw. With the rise of the comic magazines, his father, Judson Scott, saw a way to channel his son's affliction into some extra income.

Maurice made up the stories as he feverishly drew them directly onto Bristol board with a #2 brush. He never knew when--or how--his improvised tales would end. Judson Scott put up 60% of the seed money for Speed Comics. He knew his son's intense, vivid work would appeal to the young reader. He was right.

The strain of sustaining this level of high quality work took a quick toll on Maurice Scott. His work became increasingly sloppier and disjointed. After achieving narrative precision and lasting excellence with this debut "yarn," young Scott lost his rudder.

While "Gibson" remained appealing to American comic book readers--retaining a typical 22-page length per tale--other Speed Comics contributors, such as Richard Briefer and Robert Powell, openly expressed their resentment at this nepotism. Both men often had only four to six pages in which to tell their panelological tales. Their umbrage is understandable, given the sharp, swift decline in quality that afflicted Scott's efforts.

Fate took its ghastly toll on the evening of February 3, 1941. Judson Scott, while inspecting the press run of a dog toy catalog, tripped on an electrical cord and fell directly between two three-ton rolls of paper. He was crushed flat. Bits of his remains dotted thousands of the catalogs, which went out into American homes the next week.

With Scott pere out of the picture, Scott junior was given his "walking papers." "'Shock' Gibson," which was owned, part and parcel by Alfred Harvey's publishing company, was quickly passed onto a new creative team. Judson Scott's World Printing Services was shuttered, and its presses sold to the New York Herald-Tribune. It's said that fragments of Judson Scott's remains still lingered in the press's massive gears, and found their way onto thousands of copies of the popular daily newspaper.

Maurice Scott may have been "a flash in the bulb," but he deserves to be remembered--and cherished--for his stunning masterpiece of the panelological form. One cannot debate the merits of this exhaustive saga. If this, indeed, be the lone issue of Speed Comics to remain in my collection, so be it. Subsequent issues have their undeniable merits, but only this first issue produced a monumental masterwork of this stripe.

Speaking of stripes, I have forgotten Dorrie's need for that orange powder. I must be off to Shakey's Grocery Guild for another bag of "NARANJA NOMBRE OCHO." (This is a Mexican food dye, you see.) Adois for now, and keep the faith, friend! Know that my collection--and panelological passions-- shall continue, no matter what!

TRAGEDY STRIKES! THIEVERY DEVASTATES AUTHOR'S PERSONAL LIFE!

2010-04-23T17:08:00.000-07:00

Friends, a broken man writes these words you now read. Terror, desperation, sorrow, anger and a gaping, deep pain wrack my frail mortal frame.

No, it is not illness. Nor is it the death of a loved one. To the outward world--to the fools and gadflies who dabble in the mere surface of life, all is seemingly well here. Dorrie's Diner continues to flourish. Our competition, Ngo's Snak-Shak, suffered a dreadful but poetic end several days ago. The turncoat, Pearl Kroger, nearly died of botulism after her third meal at the Snak-Shak.

With the weight of the Courier-Express upon them--as the paper's star reviewer lay in a comatose state of partial paralysis--the godless jackals were escorted to the county line and told where to go.

Their pitiful "shak" was burned to the ground, in an eerie recurrence of the original fire that gutted the Herbevaux estate, on that very spot, many years prior. I doubt our fair town shall see the likes of those rascals again!

If only this were the most of my woes. Oh, friends, I can conceal the sad facts no longer.

My comic book collection has been stolen!

Not all of it, I am fortunate to say. Thanks to "Sparks" Spinkle's custodianship of the Pantheon, several hundred of my choicest panelological gems were safe and sound inside the house. Carefully stored in sealed mylar bags, tucked into neat acid-free storage boxes, around 600 of my "babies" were either in "Sparks"' room, or in my "den."

'Tis some small consolation. But when you consider the vastness of my collection--in excess of 40,000 comic magazines!--600 is, as they say, a mere "dropped bucket."

The scoundrels struck as the Snak-Shak was being burnt to the ground. An effluvium of local residents gathered around the garish, reeking "Shak" with axes, tiki-torches and gasoline. It became something of a block party. All gathered to cheer on the lapping red flames. Off-duty firemen stood at the ready with CO2 devices, in case the fire grew too frenzied.

Oh, it was joy. We sang, and danced, and consumed S'mores and deliciously charred marshmallows on sticks. I quickly re-arranged the letters on my sign-on-wheels to read:

DING DONG THE SHAK IS DEAD! LONG LIVE DORRIE'S DINER!!!

It took three of those heavy-duty orange extension cords to stretch down the street, but the sign, with its tinkling strains of Scott Joplin's "Entertainer," proved a big "hit" with the crowd.
That is, until general consensus dictated that the sign be shut off. "I can't stand that tune anymore," one young man cried. Fearing mob violence--for a crowd stoked by the roaring flames of destruction are capable of riot!--I unplugged the sign.

I had to enlist the aid of several young "turks" to help push the sign back up the street. It is, understandably, rather heavy. The street takes a considerable incline, and I feared I might lose control of the leviathan, only to see it soar into the rapid traffic of East Shepherd Street, where it would be quickly smashed to bits, and the likely cause of several violent deaths!

It was not 'til mid-day, the next day, that I noticed the theft. Oh, dear friends, my day had gone so swimmingly to that point! Our diner did a roaring breakfast trade. Dorrie's Mango-Froth French-Toast English Muffins, served open-faced with brandy-flavored syrup, are so popular we can't keep the mango flavoring on hand.

We'd just about wrapped up the lunch period. I sensed a lull in business, and ducked out to catch a breath of crisp spring air.

Put yourself in my shoes, friend. I so innocently rolled open the sliding glass doors... walked out into the patio area of the backyard... narrowly missed banging my right knee on our gas grill... looked up into the mellow, sunny afternoon... and then, as always, my gaze went out, fondly, to the Pantheon, that humble gatherum of all that is good and kind in the world...

only to see the hasp broken--the lock gone--and the doors yawning open!

Only a few sad remnants lined the floor of the Pantheon (hereafter, the Former Pantheon, as its security has been inexorably breached for all time). Among them was my incomplete copy of Speed Comics #1.

The thugs had left behind a few long-boxes of "cartoon critter" and romance comics--remnants of Marilou's bygone collection. Obviously, these wretched near-do-wells were "in the know" of the most desirable panelological "goodies" hidden in the Former Pantheon.

Otherwise, thousands of the comic magazines I have so fervently gathered, since my induction to the hobby, and art form, in the 1950s, were, plain and simply, gone!

Naturally, a catastrophe of this stripe soon became part of the public record:

I won't pretend that I am blind to the condescending tone of this article. The Courier-Express reporters clearly have thicker fish to fry. Had it been a collection of beer cans, or hot rods, the story would be taken seriously, and would have appeared on the front page of the paper. (This piece was buried on the seventh page of the B section, "Local Things," right beside the "Jumble" puzzle game.)

You'll note that I concealed the fact that some 600 comic magazines remain in my safe-keeping. Although Dorrie chided me for this lack of full disclosure, I did not want these psychotic vandals to pay me a return visit in the night.

I have compiled a list of suspects. I'm not at liberty to name names at this moment, but I shall drop some hints. Might it have been a man who is fond of gym shorts as his chosen attire--a man given to long soliloquies? Or might it have been a mincing "designer" who has been firmly but politely banished from our premises?

Or--more sinisterly--might it have been some of the shadowy folk who manned the rival "Snak-Shak?" Surely those sinister foes would bear a grudge against Dorrie's Diner. Their spies might have easily infiltrated our home. Or, perhaps, they heard tell of "the old man with the funny books," as children in this neighborhood are given to call me.

I trust you will forgive me for not presenting a panelological tale in today's "post." I am fortunate to still retain the core of my collection--632 of the finest treasures from my "A-list," plus another 487 from Marilou's holdings (which, admittedly, fall outside my general areas of panelological interest, but possess sublime sentimental value).

I withheld another nugget of information from the "coppers." Since childhood, I have "branded" my cherished comic magazines with a secret symbol, the meaning of which is known only to me. Said symbol is inscribed, with a #1 pencil, somewhere on the margins of the pages of every comic magazine in my collection.

Here 'tis:

MJM-- for Mason James Moray. An insignificant mark to the unschooled eye. Yet this mark, combined with my exhaustive ledgers of the Former Pantheon's holdings, may yet save the day for my cherished comic magazines!

Do not let my apparent calm disarm you, friend. I have cried bitter tears over this loss. By day, I am, as those musical Platters once sang, "the greatest pretender." To our clientele, I am jolly, robust, chipper Mason--friend to all, man of good cheer and a glib word. But inside, knives of terror rip my soul with each breath I draw.

If the person or persons who stole the greater part of my collection should, by chance, be readers of this "blog," let me stop for a moment to address them.

Fiends! Filthy rats! How dare you deprive me of my life's work? Thugs! Plebeian apes! What care you for the panelological arts? My hatred for you is only exceeded by my pity for your pathetic, mangled souls. You are the scum of the scum of the scum of the earth! May you experience one eternity of pain in your wretched souls for each of the precious comic magazines you have thieved! May the spectre of poverty, despair and illness dog your steps to the end of your cancerous, vulgar days!

My pardons, if such bold and forthright language should shock you, my dear, innocent, panelologically inclined brethren. But consider if such a fate should occur to you. Would you not feel this same welling-up of wrath and bile?

Please hold me in your prayers. Despite the terror which clenches my heart with each miserable ticking second of the clock, I feel a faint but compelling sense of comfort. I know that this--my life's work--shall not be in vain! I am assured that my "babies" will return to the fold, none the worse for their unexpected adventure.

(Side note: should any local "costumed crime fighters" care to investigate this case further, please note that I have removed the board I recently nailed to the crawl-space beneath the front porch. Feel free to don your action costumes and rescue my panelological treasures!)

"Bozo The Robot" from Smash Comics 22--Plus The Continued Menace of the Snak-Shak

2010-04-02T16:49:00.000-07:00

Before we get too far today, friends, here is a word from Mr. Wallace Spinkle, from his own hand:

I trust this will square us for Wallace's recent unauthorized posting here, and that we can continue onward, as friends, colleagues and fellow scholars. This does not abate the worrisome issue of "Super Senior." This problem has, if anything, worsened. Read the following newspaper article and you'll see what I mean:

I'm no fool. It has been blatantly evident that "Sparks" has enlisted Raphael as his crime-fighting "boy wonder!" The two of them have been seen whispering during work hours. As well, Raphael has excused himself, mysteriously, several times in the past two weeks.

As well, a roll of reflective tape, which I use for the corners of my comics boxes, so that I won't bump into them at night, in the darkness of the Pantheon, is missing!

Raphael is a legal adult, and does not live in my home. Thus, I have no authority over him. I fear that I, of all people, have led him down this primrose path--first with the gift of vintage "revistas" for the holidays, and secondly, by his continued exposure to the highly influential "Sparks."

The nightly thumping and bumping under the front porch is easily explained: it is the sounds of "Sparks" and Raphael readying themselves for an evening of alleged crime-fighting!

Perhaps this is just a phase they are both going through. Perhaps I ought to just let sleeping ducks lie, and let them get this urge to protect and avenge out of their collective systems!

As if I haven't enough worries on my mind! Aided by the glowing review of the despicable turncoat, Pearl Kruger, Ngo's Snak-Shak continues to rob us of customers, among them the young and ignorant, who prefer to sacrifice their vitality and health for a so-called "bargain," rather than fortify themselves with a wholesome, full-bodied and hygenic meal at Dorrie's Diner.

"For shame! For shame!" I have shouted to some of these youths, as they walk across our lawn, a greasy paper plate clutched in their hands. But nothing I can say or do will deter them from making their ill-informed choices. Let them await the emergency room, clutching instead their stomachs, as they endure the agony of food poison!

We have our faithful "regulars," and many of them have kindly brought friends and relatives to savor the culinary joys of Dorrie's menu. We are, by no means, in danger of "tanking," as the saying goes. Given time, the health inspectors will render that horrid "shak" null and void--mark my words!

When "Sparks" is not out fighting crime, he has reaffirmed my historical high opinion of his skills and insights as a panelologist. 'Twas he who suggested the story for today's post. I had forgotten, I confess, of the bold, unremitting brilliance of "Bozo the Robot." Here is an outstanding entry in this long-running series, which had considerable competition in its flagship title, Smash Comics, against the likes of Louis Fine, John Cole, Vernon Henkel, and other accomplished penmen.

I have some poignant information about the creative team behind "Bozo," which I'll share with you after you've savored this remarkable gem of panelology.

"Wayne Reid," as may well be obvious, was a pen name that encompassed two remarkably dedicated comic book artists-writers. Wayne Prescott, the series' artist, was legally blind. Reid Merck, confined to a wheelchair, was paralyzed from the waist down.

The two shared a garret near Central Park, where they created their "Bozo" stories in seclusion. I was fortunate to interview Merck, towards the end of his life. I asked him about the creative process behind "Bozo." Here are excerpts from that precious interview:

MM: Mr. Prescott was the artist on the "Bozo" series, correct?

Reid Merck: Yes, that's right.

But, earlier, you said that Prescott was legally blind...

That's correct.

How, then, could he have achieved such a high level of comic book artistry? Surely you are pulling my leg, sir...

I can't pull anything, son. I just sit here.

I beg your pardon, sir. No offense was intended...

And none taken, son. I don't blame you for doubting me. It was a crazy situation. Taxing on my nerves, too. I can't believe we worked so hard--and so long--on those damned stories.

How on earth was Mr. Prescott able to draw those stories, then?

Simple. He put his hand on the paper and I told him where--and how--to move his hand. "Up about an inch, to the right," I'd say. "Make a small circle... good... now move over a little and make another." That' s how he would draw Bozo's round eyes, for example.

With the aid of letterer/border artist "Skeet" Walburn, Prescott and Merck were able to put the finishing touches on their unique artwork:

Walburn would come over, and I'd tell him what to put in the balloons and the boxes. He was fast. He could predict my sentences before I'd finish saying them. It got so that I just shut up and let him do most of the writing. They were always my ideas, the stories, but if he was so eager to finish the sentences, then, by all means, let him do the hard work...

Wasn't this system time-consuming for you both?

Aw, it would take us about a month, working eight hours a day, to get one of those "Bozo" stories done. But what the hell else were we going to do--go see a movie? Go out for a walk? Son, it was something to do. It passed the time. And, from what I understand, kids got a kick out of our work. I was sad when (Busy) Arnold canceled the feature. It broke Wayne's heart. He just wasted away after that.

Indeed, Wayne Prescott passed away in the fall of 1943, a few months after the final appearance of Bozo and his human partner, Hugh Hazzard, in Smash Comics #41.

As for Merck, he joined the OSS, where his skills at decoding flowered:

Oh, boy, I was in on some stuff I still can't talk about. Things that would have made me run for the hills--if I could get out of this damned chair! But I couldn't. I'm glad we got those bastards dealt with. I'll say this--we came close, for a couple of hours in 1945, to surrendering to those rats.

After the war, Merck became a mystery author. His long-running series of "Clip" Perkins paperback novels, which include the now-famous Hell is a Lonely Place (1966), remain in print to this day--outliving their creator, who passed away days after my chance interview of October, 1976.

The glories of panelology are many. It is an art form in which the disabled, as well as the healthy, can flourish--or flounder. The printed page, with its bright, primitive colors, knows no infirmities, no boundaries. Let us always remember and savor this insight.

On that inspirational note, I bid you a good day, and good luck. I shall meet with you, via this "blog," again very soon.

Another Public Apology

2010-03-21T08:13:00.001-07:00

Friends, 'tis with a shock that I discover a recent, unauthorized posting by my longtime colleague, Wallace "Sparks" Spinkle.

I am sorry not to have taken notice of it 'til now. You see, Dorrie, Raphael and I have been challenged by a newcomer--a business hastily constructed to "steal our thunder!"

The "upside" of capitalism is that a fellow with a dream has the right to pursue it, to whatever ends may result. The "bad side" is that claptrap concerns can appear to usurp the hard work one has endowed his or her business venture with.

In our case, a threat looms on the horizon, across the street: "Ngo's Snak-Shak." It appeared, literally overnight, two weeks ago. It is operated by a Cambodian family, who rented a studio apartment in the nearby "Butte Vista Court."

A vacant lot, left abandoned after a faulty house foundation was built in 1979, was suddenly cleared of its decades of bramble. In the night, sounds of sawing and hammering could be heard.

At first, I thought it perhaps another fantasia of Mister Spinkle--perhaps he was building some alleged "time portal," or another crude device to enable his delusions. A quick check showed "Sparks" asleep, a vintage issue of Hit Comics spread-eagled on his torso.

I opened the front door and peered into the night. The lot is diagonal to ours, two or three houses down the street. I squinted and saw movement, light, and chitter-chatter of Asian dialect. Large tarpaulins had been hung, to obscure these mysterious efforts.

I thought to call the police--and then feared for my own safety. What if it should be discovered that my home harbors a vigilante? I, of all people, am in no position to call upon the law. I am, myself, a criminal, I fear.

I mustn't divert from the events. There is so much to say that I feel dizzy.

The next morning, a vulgar plywood shack, painted harsh hues of orange, pink and yellow, could be seen. Smoke billowed from a crude tin chimney. A portable sign-on-wheels straddled this hellish construction. Its poorly spaced letters read:

B ESTL UNCH FOR Y OU
NGO SSNAK-SHA K

Over my second cup of coffee, I chortled at the sight. Who, in their right mind, would patronize such a dubious venture? I felt it not worthy of mention to Dorrie. The first good spring rainfall would wash away this shoddy affair.

O, friends, I was wrong! This despicable "shak" has seriously thwarted our cozy little concern. They offer great steaming heaps of heaven-knows-what, mingled with curious spices and served on thin paper plates. Another, hand-lettered, sign, makes this announcement:

ALL YOU EAT
$5 FIVE DOLLAR

We have struggled to keep our prices low, but due to cost of supplies, it is not possible for our Diner to offer a lunch priced lower than $6.50. For that price, we, too, offer a heaping portion of food. Please note that it is served on good china, with decent silverware and a cloth napkin. We do not traffic in runny swill on "Chinette" plates, nor ineffectual plastic utensils!

One would think that anyone, of their right mind, would shun such a suspect establishment like the dreaded "HINI" flu! Yet witness this astounding lapse of good judgment, on the part of our own "fifth estate:"

I am shocked to recall the courtesy we afforded Ms. Kruger on her visit to our bistro. To think she should so quickly "change horses in a stream!" But the minds of critics are often fickle. They are rather like toddlers--drawn to the first bright color they see, and to the first noise that captures their fleeting attention.

This accursed "shak" has seriously impacted the Diner's business. It galls me to see the hapless souls "beating their feat" towards this dubious construction, and I know it breaks Dorrie's heart each time one of our former customers is seen consuming filet-of-cat, or whatever these interlopers consider food.

We do have our faithful regulars, God bless them all. We now reward them with larger portions and free desserts. They, in turn, have vowed to spread the gospel of Dorrie's kitchen magic near and far.

I asked Raphael to take a reconnaissance mission to the "Shak," to see what he could find out about its proprietors. The poor, brave soul returned an hour later with a bloody nose. "Ellos me golpeo, repetidamente," he sighed. Apparently, the owner's teenage thugs sussed dear Raphael out as an interloper and battered him.

I took the initiative to hire one of those marquees-on-wheels yesterday. I selected the flashiest, biggest and brightest model available at Rent-It-2Day!

Our sign boasts tri-colored neon piping (which makes a terrible hum that interferes with our cable TV reception), pulsing electric lights and music! It constantly plays a computerized version of Scott Joplin's "Mr. Entertainer." This digitized ditty is impossible to sleep through. There is no evident OFF switch, so at night, before retiring, I must disconnect the thick orange power cord from its source.

Our sign also outdoes Ngo's with its verbiage. To wit:

DORRIE'S DINER
ELEGANT ENTREES
SERVED HYGIENICALLY
!A CIVILIZED BISTRO!

I trust this message will suffice. What more need be said? Reader, what would you prefer: a cozy dining experience, featuring rib-sticking, heart-warming meals, served with grace and comfort--or the remains of house pets, heaped on a cheap disc of paper by an unknown race?

I know what some of you are thinking: this is a job for "Super-Senior!" I want it stated, publicly, that I do not endorse hooliganism, self-enforced justice, or unlawfulness in any way, shape or means. Wallace, you are NOT to vandalize the Cambodians!

To make matters worse, my accursed foot has been acting up again. I'm afraid I have lapsed from my "microboitic" diet. It is difficult to eat straw and rocks when the divine cuisine of my spouse is within easy reach, in copious amounts. I shall clearly have to balance my intake. I do not wish to suffer the agony and embarrassment of "the gout" again.

You will forgive the lack of the panelological presentation today. As "Sparks" saw fit to include two stories of imagination and wonder in his rogue post, I shall consider this a sufficient rebuttal, and, for the nonce, rest my weary case.

A Real Super-Hero Picks Out A Story For you! To Read!

2010-03-19T15:01:00.000-07:00

"Sparks" Spinkle here, folks!

Well, as you know, I've moved in on the Morays. It's been nearly a month, now, since I took roost at their hen house.

The grub is good, the weather is calm, and ol' Masoroonie is still the best durned comic collector on this good earth. I'm mighty pleased to be out of the walnut academy. T'wasn't no fun, no way, no how!

Well, ol' "Moray Eel" ran off to see the doc. Sez he had some foot pain. May be it's that gout come back to get him.

The upshot of all this is, he left his computer logged on to the "web," and I know he was wanting to do a new "post" here. Boy, that wife of his sure rides herd on him. It's "Mason, this" and "Mason, that." Poor chap seldom gets a sec to sit down and smell the roses--or the Golden Age comics!

Mase offered to let me pick today's Golden Age gem for you fine ladies and gents to peruse. So I thought, "heck, he's set up the canvas for me--why not do his painting for him?"

So it's me, folks--"Sparks" Spinkle (AKA Super Senior, the crime-fighting wonder) in charge of the cavalry today!

If you got worried by Mason's palaver, last time he posted, not to worry, folks! I've got this crime-fighting thing well in hand. Each night, in the SeniorCave (well, it's actually a space under the front steps, but it's water-tight, and I can store my gear there), I suit up for town patrol. I keep my mask and my weapons under there, in a big paper bag.

I like to travel light. I've got it down to a fine art now. Windex bottle is carried in my left hand, Easy-Off Oven Cleaning Foam sits in my right mitt. I also carry a container of Elmer's Glue-All (to pour into the gas tanks of fiends' getaway cars) and some fine sand from a local playground--it blinds 'em like nothing else!

By far, my most effective crime-fighting tool is built in. It's my surgical scars. I had my appendix removed in Mexico City, back in '74. The quack who carved me up did something wrong. When the wounds healed, they looked pretty awful. The skin is all blue and green, kind of marbled like alabaster. There are these big bumps that look something awful. They don't hurt--in fact, they feel kinda numb anymore.

But talk about your "special effects!" Brother, can they raise an eyebrow! I've had hoodlums turn tail more than once when I give 'em an eyeful of those babies and brother, that's all she wrote!

Crime is at an all-time low in this fair city, and I aim to keep it this way. Oh, the newspapers may not like me. They may talk about me on the Ten O'Clock News. But they can't keep a good man down--no, sir!

Truth be told, I've kept a low profile so far this week. I expect there will be some filibustering and gandy dancing tonight and tomorrow night. My Pepsi sweatshirt is freshly washed and ready to don at a moment's notice!

(By the way, Maseorooni, thanks for the tip in your last post! I didn't notice I was wearing that shirt in my "civilian identity!" I almost gave myself away, huh?)

My daytime job, delivering dinners to folks who live or work in a six-block radius, allows me to keep my ear to the ground, crime-wise. I overheard two so-and-sos talking about a scheme to break open city parking meters and pocket all those quarters.

I was there, with Easy-Off in hand, that night. Sure as shooting, those two goons showed up. I gave 'em the works.

Like The Shadow, I realize that a good spiel is important in getting their attention. So this is my little prepared bit. I say this to all miscreants and fowl-players:

The arms of justice protect the innocent--and defeat the guilty! Each finger is a sword, and every hand a blade! Cower before the arms of right! Heed the warning of the Super Senior!

After that, I let 'em have it with Windex (if they're guilty of a minor misdemeanor, such as prowling or loitering) or the Easy-Off (reserved for thieves, liars, and such).

Well, that's all of that for now. Let's get onto today's super story! Actually, it's TWO stories. They're both such corkers that I couldn't decide.

These babies come from an unlikely spot: Jungle Comics. You wouldn't think that series to have anything but ape-men caterwauling and swinging through the trees, huh? Wrong, buddy boy! Early on, this title was chock-a-block with tasty exotic costumed heroes.

Here are two gems from the 10th issue of Jungle. This is vintage stuff, folks. I'm sure Mr. Masonite would approve of these choices. Here goes. First up is "The Red Panther."

Gee whiskers, what a story, huh? Wow! I thought those li'l green boogers were going to do our hero and heroette in--and good! But you can't keep a costumed hero down--whether he's on land, sea, or, as in this case, flying through space.

Those bad guys are sarcastic li'l cusses, huh? I'd give 'em a quick blast of Easy Off if they flipped me the lip they give the Red Panther!

Are you ready for a mind-blower? This story takes the cake into the next zip code!

Didn't look so hot when it started, did it? But, brother, did you lamp that "all a dream" angle at the end? It's a wow--and how!

I remember when Mace and I first read this story. It was at the '72 MagnaCon in Dubuque, Iowa. It was colder than a dead cat outside. The con was held in this terrible little TraveLodge out in the middle of nowhere.

There wasn't even a convenience store within walking distance. For three days, we had to live off of the snacks in the vending machine. I tell you, I got so sick of chocolate sandwich cookies that, to this day, I still get woozy at the sight of 'em!

Anyway, back in those days, you could score these old Jungle issues for a song and dance. The collectors were all after those Captain Americas and Batmans--baloney on a pony, if you ask me! But I don't make the rules--I just bend 'em!

I was the first to spot this little masterpiece. From the splash panel, I almost paged right past the darned thing! Those he-men adventurer stories are the bane of many a Golden Age comic mag. But am I glad I kept reading!

You know, they have that Shelter Island show on at the movies--where everything turns out to be just a dream at the end. The critics are trampling each other, shouting out their praises of this clap-trap! Phooey, sez I. At least I know that I don't have to sit through two hours of that blather. I've got a better version of that story right here, in the pages of this comic book!

Well, folks, I did it. I'm not the historian that Macerooni is. I'm sure he could tell you the shoe sizes of the fellows who wrote and drew these things. Bless his heart--he was the guy who stopped and asked these questions, every chance he could get. He'd bend the ear of any old-time comic book artist or writer who showed up at the "cons."

Out would come his little red notebook. I'd see that pencil waggle up and down, back and forth. I knew he'd have some little gems when he was done. And he's shared all this wealth with the world of comics fandom.

I wish he'd tell the one about Rudy Palais and the pickle barrel. It's a corker! You see, Rudy Palais was kind of hooked on those big dill pickles that they have at the store. Back then, they'd just leave 'em floating in the brine, by the register, in one of those big wooden barrels.

Well, Al Bryant and Reed Crandall pulled a good one on ol' Rudy. They ran a live electric wire into this big pickle barrel. They knew that Palais always bought five big pickles on his way to the studio every morning. They couldn't wait to see him dancin' a jig, with his mitts buried in that salty brine!

Unfortunately, Rudy called in sick that morning, and some old lady died of electric shock instead. Al and Reed kept a low profile for a couple of years after that. I guess the "statue of limitations" is out on that particular crime now. I believe both those fellows are long gone, any how.

They would have certainly gone to jail for that little caper--if they'd been caught.

I think I woulda just given 'em a squirt of Windex apiece and sent 'em back to their drawing boards.

Well, I hear some commotion out in the front yard. Better post this thing while it's still a surprise. And remember, the arms of jsituce

A Hero In Our Midst--And A Past Love Remembered

2010-03-03T15:43:00.000-08:00

I wish I had heeded your sage advice, Mr. Timey. But I had to help a friend in need. Oh, what have I done?

These clippings from the Courier-Express tell the story better than my feeble words could do:

I imagine you have "taken the picture," friends, and sussed out my situation.

Yes, I have--rather, Dorrie and I have--brought "Sparks" Spinkle into our home.

It was Dorrie who encouraged me to invite him. Her Diner has become so popular that there is a demand for take-out orders--and for delivery. Thus, she felt that a man of "Sparks'" considerable energy would be an asset to the company. He might make a superb "delivery boy" for my dear wife's culinary wares.

I had my doubts about this plan from the start. But, as I said earlier, who am I to turn away a friend in need?

As well, the event would serve to take the edge off of a painful anniversary for me.

I have spoken here, once, of my first wife Marilou. Well, February 27th was the 40th anniversary of our first meeting. It is a day that is etched into my memory forever. I cannot speak to my current wife of this past love--it would not be proper, nor fair.

But I cannot simply banish the memory of Marilou from my heart! She shall always occupy a portion of that "real estate."

In a sense, having "Sparks" in my daily life would be a sort of tie to the glory days of the 1970s and '80s. "Sparks" was a frequent visitor to our home, until his disappearance, of which I have written elsewhere in this "bolg."

Many was the "comicon" we attended as a panelological "triple threat." Many were the "finds" we made--and later shared. Strong was the four-color bond of friendship between us all.

We paid for "Sparks"' bus ride to our town. He paid the shipping charges on his panelological collection. We were, at first, considering a merger of our collections into a sort of Ultra-Pantheon.

Though there is much duplication, we each boast a trove of items unique to our hoards. As the saying goes, "There is strength in the numbers."

That plan is on hiatus, pending the outcome of our current dilemma.

As you've read, "Super Senior" has begun his crime-fighting program in our community! I feared that this identity would continue unabated with "Sparks"' entrance into our home.

I tried to talk with him about this "issue" several times. "Not to worry!" he told me. "Consider the matter taken care of."

"Sparks" has integrated well into the Diner. Despite his insistence on wearing that Pepsi sweatshirt on the job, he has proven an efficient, cheerful and accurate delivery man. Our lunch trade has doubled since he began to offer this free service.

My thought was that all this strenuous physical activity would so tire him out that he would sleep at night--and not long to prowl the darkened streets in search of crimes!

As you can imagine, my heart has lept with each new headline concerning the exploits of "Super Senior." I have lost much sleep via fearful dreams of "the authorities" crashing down on our business and residence. But, so far, it has not happened.

"Sparks," to his credit, has not once boasted of his exploits. The closest he has come to acknowledging them is to nudge me and wink as he comments, "Some news about that 'masked avenger' fellow, eh? Sure wish I could be like him! But I'm just a mild-mannered delivery boy..."

Dorrie has complained of the mysterious disappearance of various cleaning products from her shelves. I know, all too well, where those cans of oven cleaner and those spray bottles of Windex have gone!

I worry that "Sparks" will meet up with a genuinely threatening criminal mind soon--one who shan't be stopped by a spray of aerosol. The thought of his obituary in the Courier-Express chills me to my marrow.

On the other hand, "Sparks" appears to be having "the time of this life" living with us! He sleeps on our couch, which folds out handily to a fairly comfortable bed. He takes pains to avoid wearing out his welcome. He happily does yardwork chores--and thus suffers gladly the endless loghorea of our neighbor, Burt Liffler.

And, of course, we hold daily "pow wows" on our panelological favorites. "Sparks" has refreshed my enthusiasm for the medium tenfold.

He, in fact, is the genesis of today's most unusual post. I have never offered a non-super-hero feature here. But, in the honor of Marilou's memory, today's posting is humorous and whimsical in nature.

It comes from the fourth issue of Jingle Jangle Comics. While comics pundits endlessly praise the over-rated works of George Carlson (whom I find a bit precious and insufferable), the other, superior features of are Jingle Jangle Comics are unjustly ignored.

"Remember how she laughed when she read this one?" I turned to see this opening page of the enchanting "Fatty and Butty" story you are about to read. Memory struck me like a "tin of bricks--" the sweet tinkle of Marilou's laughter, accompanied by the rhythmic slapping of her open palm against a tabletop, as she read and savored the dreamlike lunacy of this tale.

Writer-artist Merrill Hoff was among Marilou's favorite panelological creators. And this was, certainly, his finest achievement, in her august opinion.

Though it represents a significant departure from the norm, here on Panelological Pantheon, I hope you will accept it in the spirit offered, and humor an old man's cherished memories of a past love.

Well, there you have it. Our next post will consist of a story chosen personally by "Sparks" Spinkle.

By reading this post, "Sparks," you will know that I know. And, as well, of my concern for your well-being. Please, my friend, surrender the sweatshirt and the ski-mask. Be content with yourself, and be happy in your new life and new home.

"Dynamo" from Science Comics 2--plus a real-life superhero in our midst!

2010-02-15T08:41:00.000-08:00

Salutations, my four-color friends!

I trust you have had a pleasant "valentine's day." Thankfully, Dorrie's Diner is closed on Sundays--despite great demands that we be open "eight days a week."

Dorrie's church commitments make it impossible for the Diner to operate on Sundays. After her services, we had our traditional Valentine breakfast (heart-shaped waffles with strawberry syrup and whipped cream) and a Scrabble championship.

I'm proud to say that I finally won a match! Only by sheer luck. Dorrie had foolishly retained two V tiles--the hardest, by far, to rid one's self of--and the eight points she lost, added to my score, gave me the winning hand--by a mere three points.

Anyone could learn from Dorrie's skills of strategy. I am but a "lamb in the slaughter" when pitted against her in Scrabble.

Afterwards, Dorrie became absorbed in a "Murder, She Wrote" episode, and I attended to my neglected communiques from the outside world.

Among them was a letter from my old comic magazine comrade, Wallace "Sparks" Spinkle. As this missive worries me somewhat, I'll share it with you here, friends:

Masorooni!

Hot cha! Have I got a scoop for your blog!

How'd you like to interview the world's first real-life super-hero? Hint: he's someone you know. Double hint: he's the guy who wrote this letter!

Yep--I've taken the plunge into crime-fighting! It's been on my "to-do list" since, oh, 1961. Never quite got around to it. Seemed too complicated--like too much trouble. Where the hell was I gonna find sleeping gas capsules, a Batarang, a secret cave, and those giant computers?

But fate has its own plans for us all, bud. Here's what happened:

I'm allowed to take a stroll twice a day. They know I'm a reliable character, and where else do I have to go, anyways?

It's chilly here at night, so I wear a blue wool cap and a Pepsi sweatshirt I won in a raffle. There I was, just taking my evening constitutional--

when danger struck!

Three teenage hoodlums were kicking a Coke machine. With every kick, a free can of soda tumbled down--and into their thieving little hands. The brats weren't even drinking the stuff. Just shaking the cans up good, then spraying each other with the soda!

Something had to be done.

"You kids stop that!" I shouted.

They looked up, startled. Soda dripped from their pimpled faces.

"That's right! I'm givin' you ten seconds to clear out of here."

"Or what?" The boys' beefy ring-leader, a thug in a letterman's jacket, sneered at me.

"Or this," I cried. I lifted my sweat-shirt to show them my surgical scars.

That did it! Those punks cleared out like a pack of scared kittens.

I had stopped crime from happening!

They had left one can of unopened soda in the machine. I figured I might need it for evidence, so I took it along. (Sad to report that I drank the evidence, but I've saved the can, just in case.)

Since that fateful night, I've converted my knit cap into a face mask. (I have to wear my reading glasses over the mask, because I can't see for squat at night.)

I make my nightly "rounds." My mask hidden under my sweatshirt, I walk past the night staff. Little do they realize I live a double life.

Turning the corner, I take off my specs, put on the mask (and the glasses) and make my nightly patrol.

So far, I've only seen one crime--a guy running a red light. I got his license plate number and called it in to the cops.

Yes, "Super Senior" is on the prowl for crime! Tell you what, Mason--it's every bit as exciting as our favorite comic-mag stories. Moreso, because it's happening in real life!

I encourage you to consider making your own costume and patrolling your own neighborhood. I'm sure there's crime afoot, and a guy like you could stop those punks far better than I.

PS: Enclosed is a drawing I did the other day. My nephew Brock fancies himself a cartoonist, and I thought we'd put together a "tie-in" comic mag. This is my concept for the front cover. I think it'll sell like hotcakes!

Speaking of hotcakes, sounds like you and the missus are peddling plenty of those via your new bistro! "Super Senior" may have to make a special pit-stop there. That is, if they'll let me out of this nut-bin!

Heroically yours,
"Sparks"

You can well imagine the worry this missive has caused me. Moreso, the accompanying sketch, reproduced below:

Friends, it is one thing to enjoy the exploits of our favorite panelological heroes. 'Tis another to take their actions into the workaday world. "Sparks" has plenty of pep, but he's older than I, and all alone in the world.

"We should do something," Dorrie agreed when I showed her the letter and drawing.

We cannot have him committed--he is already in the "nut bin," to use his own colorful colloquialism. It's clear that he needs more guidance and understanding than he is currently being given.

Dorrie and I are considering the option of inviting "Sparks" to stay with us, pending his acceptance into the retirement community my father resides in. It is a bit of a burden, taking one more into an already-crowded household. Perhaps Wallace can be of use in the cafe.

Heaven knows, the man needs something to do--a focus for all his intense energy. Just knowing that he wanders the streets of his town--in a mask!--at night brings me worry. Last night, my usually restful sleep was frequently broken by nightmares.

To calm myself, in the still of the night, I crept out into the living room. By flashlight, I read the following story, from my precious Science Comics #2. It helped me find peace. Thus, I share it now with you...

Harold Weber, talented writer-artist of "Dynamo," infuses this familiar, albeit lively early costumed-hero adventure with a curious finis: the gold-plating of a group of criminal thugs!

One would assume they have been slaughtered via this process, as explained in the "Wikapedia:"

Gold plating is a method of depositing a thin layer of gold on the surface of other metal, most often copper or silver.

Gold plating is often used in electronics, to provide a corrosion-resistant electrically conductive layer on copper, typically in electrical connectors and printed circuit boards. With direct gold-on-copper plating, the copper atoms have the tendency to diffuse through the gold layer, causing tarnishing of its surface and formation of an oxide/sulfide layer. A layer of a suitable barrier metal, usually nickel, has therefore to be deposited on the copper substrate, forming a copper-nickel-gold sandwich.

Metals may also be coated with gold for ornamental purposes, using a number of different processes usually referred to as gilding.

It would seem fatal to the human nervous system to be thus gold-plated.

I am suddenly significantly less comforted by this panelological escapade! I am, indeed, troubled, friends.

Our restaurant runs like a Swiss watch--with Dorrie's impeccable cuisine, Raphael's high-profile customer service, and my astute financial management and cash register operation. Dare we introduce a "wild card" to this delicate balance? Would "Sparks" fit into this regime--or would he prove its downfall?

Again, I beseech you kind readers for your "two cent worth" of opinion. And, as ever, my sincere thanks for your perusal of this humble forum.

Wild Thrills From Science Comics 6: "Marga the Panther Woman!" -- with important P.S. added!

2010-02-06T17:25:00.000-08:00

Friends, let it be said that your encouragements and kind accolades genuinely touch my heart and soul. They have been a beacon in the fog for myself, during a time of chaos and change.

I wish I could "post" here everyday, to better satisfy my faithful, kind readership. But there is much at stake to keep me away from my beloved panelology this new year!

Biggest news first: I have been retired from the "insurance game!"

I was offered a handsome early retirement package from my employers. They are among the many businesses affected by the "downsizery" of the American economy. Let's call a spade a spade--it's a Depression, folks!

My former employers referred to the very generous offer as a "severe package." In that it was severely good fortune for me to accept it, I concur.

You shalln't hear me singing that old "standard," "Brother, Can You Spare Some Change?" The sum they offered was startlingly large. As well, my full medical benefits will continue unabated for the next two years.

At last--at long last I have the bulk of my day to devote to the pursuit of panelology! Ye olde eBay purchases shall have to "downsize" a bit. But not entirely! I have worked out a budget, and it seems that, with my investments and stocks, I can afford around $1,000 a year to spend, free and clear, on vintage comic magazines.

Truth told? The job was merely a meaning to an end. Just a place to go and pass the hours. My heart was never in that line of work. Meaningless amortizations! Tax tables of maddening inscrutability! Triplicate forms with their flesh-endangering staples! Let the "young bucks" have all that "malarkey!" I've served my time--I'm now a free man!

Well, not entirely "free." Dorrie's Diner has been surprisingly and consistently popular. So much so that the "missus" has asked me aboard, to serve as ersatz manager and cashier. 'Tis a charming place to spend the day, and our 8 AM to 3 PM schedule allots the later afternoon and evening hours for the study of panelologic art.

Raphael has flowered in his role as maitre'd to our bistro. He has grown a magnificent moustache--something like that sported by Geraldo Rivera in his television heyday. He greets each customer, familiar or first-timer, with a dramatic bow and a sweeping gesture of his extended right arm, ushering them with warmth and welcome to our humble eatery.

This dramatic gesture only met with tragedy once--when Raphael did not see the elderly sister of ex-mayor Mervin Johnson. Poor Darlene (better-known as "Li'l Pea"), whose vision has been dimmed by cruel time, did not see Raphael's sweeping arm coming towards her. Because her forehead is exactly the height of Raphael's elbow, he did not see her, either.

His flat palm hit "Li'l Pea" directly on her cheek. This sent her glasses flying into a diner's soup. Her top dentures skidded into the kitchen area, where it pinged against the metal mop bucket. No harm was done. I honestly do not think Mrs. Johnson even noticed the blow--or, perhaps, not even felt it.

The accident made the morning paper (on the last page of the Local News section). "BISTRO WAITER SLAPS EX-MAYOR JOHNSON'S KIN" was a headline that made all of us at the Diner cringe. Yet no one criticized Raphael--or the rest of the crew--for this mishap.

In fact, "Li'l Pea" has become a daily customer to the Diner. She especially loves Dorrie's Mediterranean Fish Stick Salad. (Dorrie must liquify it in her restaurant-grade Cuisinart blender so that Mrs. Johnson can consume it with ease.)

Raphael has become increasingly conversant in American "slang" lingo, to the growing delight of our patronage. "Hey Rube!" is a typical greeting to our diners, along with such "crowd-pleasers" as "Wot'll yez have?" and "Reach, you rats! I'm takin' you in!"

The supply and demand of a cafe, even one as humble as ours, is as exacting as my former job any day. Without vital food ingredients, delivered fresh on a daily basis, our goose is cooked--if you'll allow the pun. Thus, Raphael and I are charged to make a daily "shopping run."

We do not shop at the traditional grocery store. No sir! As genuine restaurateurs, we are allowed access to wholesale food suppliers. Our main source is Shakey's Grocery Guild, which is in a seemingly sinister industrial road on the edge of town.

Within a gigantic galvanized tin quonset, amidst the roar of massive freezer cases, the foodstuffs to feed a nation of diners is sold for surprisingly affordable prices. Fellows named "Bud" and "Grumpy" vend these secret wares. They are a hard-nosed lot, and one must approach them on their terms.

I have found Raphael's adopted patois most engaging to these wholesalers. "Wot's fer sale, youse mugs?" gained us entree to what "Grumpy" called "the good meats." The squinting, perpetually bitter-looking balding man let us into a locked meat freezer. "If half th' rest'rants in this town knew about this here room, they'd be on us like white on rice," he said.

"Grumpy" then slammed the heavy door shut on the freezing room--stranding us inside its sub-zero climes! By the time our plight dawned on us, the old man was far away. Raphael tried to call the outside world with his "celled phone," but there was no reception. We simply had to wait 10 minutes before the wizened gnome returned to open the door.

He looked surprised to find us within the frosty tomb. "You guys again!" he exclaimed.

We retreated with a sufficient stock of beef, chicken and pork to serve our public for one more day of business. Such trials befall the "little men" of business each day, in every town!

I am glad we can now serve "the good meats" to our customers. I shudder to consider the quality of the meats we acquired from Shakey's Grocery Guild prior to this incident!

One must purchase common ingredients in bulk. Several of Dorrie's recipes involve large portions of tomato catsup. Thus, we buy our "ketchup" not in pint bottles, but in ten-pound plastic drums.

Eggs are purchased in quantities of 12 dozen--enough for Paul Bunyan's breakfast! Sugar, flour, rice and other "staples" come in fat burlap sacks, as do salt and pepper. But without these bulk portions, our business is doomed to failure. For of what use is a restaurant that cannot deliver on the promises of its menu?

In what passes for my spare time, I still peruse the golden gains of my recent holiday comic magazine acquisitions. Thrills and surprises still issue forth from these mellowed, time-bronzed pages!

Again I dip my cup from the seemingly eternal well that is Science Comics. From issue 6 of this tragically short-lived magazine, I choose today's tale--a sterling and shocking episode of "Marga, the Panther Woman!" It is a supreme achievement of Burl Whitacre--among the few Golden-Aged comic book creators who is still alive and active as an artist! Read on, dear friend...

Even at the time of its 1940 publication, Burl Whitacre's work spoke of older eras. Born in 1896, Whitacre can boast of being alive during three centuries. By 1912, Whitacre was an accomplished wood engraver. He supplied "lino cuts" for various small town newspapers in his home state of Missouri.

The primitive but striking look he perfected in his "lino cuts" translated easily into the tools of the panelologist's trade. There is something of the America of the 19th century in his florid, arresting compositions, and in his blunt but forceful ink-work.

Whitacre was out of comic magazines by 1942--for different reasons than most of his peers. Too old to serve in the Second World War, Whitacre quit the field to become a Franciscan monk.

As he later wrote in his memoirs, Always an Artist:

In my line of work, I drew terror every day. For the newspapers, it was killings, muggings, wars, diseases. For the "funny books," it was fangs, claws, blood, monsters, fiends and vixens.

I had to draw--get me? My hands couldn't rest long on a piece of paper. Faced with a woodblock and a set of cutting tools, I ached to carve an image into being.

But all these visions of cruelty--I could bear them no longer! I searched and searched for a means in which to put my gifts to a higher use.

I read an article in the paper about a monastery in northern California where the monks still did illuminated manuscripts. Here was a way to satisfy that itchy feeling! To always have a need for my fingers to grasp a creative tool and draw--draw--draw!

In the midst of brutal war, I became a monk, and withdrew from the world. It brought me a peace I felt from head to toe... a peace that renews itself every morning, no matter whether I am working on a golden curlicue of a holy document, or lettering the signs for a bake sale. It is all good work. It is the work I intend to continue until my dying day.

That day has yet to come. At age 114, Whitacre still works each day in the monastery. His flowing, elegant illuminated manuscripts have been showcased in art museums--while his bake-sale, rummage-sale and "NO PARKING HERE" signs are highly coveted by collectors of "outsider art." (For those not in the know, that means artwork that was intended to be posted and viewed outside. Weather conditions being what they are, this 'outsider art' seldom survives. Hence, its great value to collectors.)

Whitacre may have felt ashamed of his bloody, brutal work for the comic magazines, but one cannot deny its flair, excitement and eye-appeal. In this panelologist's humble opinion, Whitacre's work puts that of the highly over-rated Fletcher Hanks to shame.

On that note, I must end this happy missive. My apologies for the infrequency of these "blog" efforts. I shall do my best to assure that you do not have such a long wait between "posts" in the future.

Until next time, bless you all, my four-color friends, and may wisdom and calm guide your steps!

POST SCRIPT!!! I have just been informed, from my comrade in panelology Paul Timey (I deeply apologize for mis-spelling your name in past posts, sir), of a delightful new site--another of these "blogs"--entitled Comic Book Attic.

These fellows have a terrific idea for bringing the panelologic art to the computer. I shall most certainly be in contact with them directly, to bring forth a couple of my dream projects: The Complete Shock Gibson, The Complete Pyroman, and The Quality Humor Filler Pages of Bernard Dibble. In the meantime, friends, I urge you to peruse their "blog" and see for yourself!

Navy Jones Fights Undersea Terrorism--from Science Comics#2--plus Diner News Galore!

2010-01-21T16:34:00.000-08:00

Salutations, dear lovers of the panelological arts! I write this amidst a hurly-burly of smoke, water and a great deal of running about.

You see, Dorrie's Diner has just suffered its first cruel blow of fate. And just as it was going like gang-breakers! Worry not, dear companions--we're not down from the count! We've just been forced to purchase a new restaurant-grade microwave oven.

The culprit: Dorrie's delicate, satisfying Turkey-Jerky Swiss-Cheese Souffle. There is little on this globe to match its smooth yet smoky flavor. But its delicate, lighter-than-clouds "mouth appeal" depends on a final two-minute trip in the microwave oven.

The $3,000 restaurant-grade microwave we have installed (thank goodness for warranties! We shall get a replacement free of charge, shipping included) has a most confusing interface. If one wishes to heat an entree for two minutes, one must depress the numbers thusly:

0200

A simple confusion of digits, and one might accidentally program the machine to cook for twenty minutes, not two. 'Tis what happened.

I realize that I've started in the middle--but there has been so very much afoot here at Maison Moray that I scarcely know just whence to commence. Thus, I have not been able to devote any time to my dear and near "blog."

I hope to make up for lost days here. As was my promise, I continue to offer golden gems from the startling, scintillating Science Comics--perhaps my single favorite comic-book series of them all!

First, the good news:

Dorrie's Down-Home Diner successfully opened for business on January 13th. We chose that day as a publicity "gag," since many believe the 13th day to be a bad omen for business.

Pearl Kruger, the local restaurant critic for the Courier-Express, was among those awaiting the first opening of our doors. She and Dorrie are "thicker than thieves," and we were tacitly assured a stellar critique in the local paper.

Here 'tis, in full:

Dorrie wept with joy when the newspaper with this raving review arrived. It was as if the heavens above deemed her supreme happiness for all her hard work!

Raphael has become one of the Diner's many assets. He possesses a great personal charm--an aspect of his character not clearly seen by myself 'til now.

He is quick with a smile, and is a skillful composer of kitchen orders. As well, he has proven a quick study. From the stack of precious Golden Age comic books I gave him recently, he has gleaned a number of charming colloquialisms, with which he avails upon Dorrie's happy customers.

"Wot'll it be, youse mugs?" he is often heard to say, when approaching new diners with his order pad. Exclamations of "Yikes!," "Jimminies!" and "Yowp!" are uttered as he presents customers with their beverages and entrees.

Raphael broke up the house when Police Chief Earl Smothers visited the Diner yesterday. His alarmed cry of "Cheezit-- da cops!" made everyone (even Smothers!) burst out in joyous laughter.

As well, his approach to collecting the bill from sated diners has its rococo charm. "C'mon, youse yeggs--cough up da dough, 'afore I get rough on yez!" Raphael is a large part of our humble "mom and pop" bistro's "hip" charms.

Aside from smoke damage to the curtains, and a thoroughly scorched glass warming tray, the Diner is none the worse from today's blaze.

'Tis now I must confess: 'twas I who mis-punched those fateful digits! In the bustle of orders and chit-chat, the souffle was forgotten about as it cooked--and cooked--and cooked.

The entree burst into flames--with sufficient force to blow the oven's double-seal door off its hinges. Fragments of flaming jerky, strewn with skin-scalding melted cheese, peppered the counter and the ceiling.

Thank heavens no one was hurt by this flying, flaming debris! We could have been law-suited out of business!

I am banished to my study while the firemen clean up the damage and remove the destroyed oven. While I feel sheepish, I take relief in knowing that no lives were harmed, and that the accident has not incurred more financial hardship upon us.

While "serving my time," I recalled this dear blog, and my commitment to the ongoing presentation of my panelological treasures.

Back into the second issue of Science Comics I dip my cup. 'Tis my thrill to present to you "Navy Undersea Jones." I grudgingly consulted the "Big Comic-Book Database," in search of the artist of this stunning story.

As they would have it, this is the work of a Bert Whitman. His bold poster-like pages, repetition of imagery, and literally explosive final page mark this as a high water-mark in early American panelology.

If this is the Bert Whitman I'm thinking of, I have an anecdote about him. I shall save it as a dessert to this "main entree" of magic.

Full-page battle scenes! Stunning usage of negative spaces! A finale worthy of a Picasso! This "Navy Undersea Jones" story offers lovers of the paneled art everything that is good about the form.

I would dearly love to create some diagrammatics for certain pages here, as I did for last post's "Cosmic Carson" tale. Alas, this computer lacks "Photo Shop," and I am powerless to make such a display here. Suffice to say that Bert Whitman shared with George Tuska an undying love for the use of extreme negative space.

If this is, indeed the Bert Whitman I know of, this story carries a particular irony. You see, Whitman was terrified of water--even bath water! His nickname amongst his peers was "Bathless Bertie."

Poor Whitman had good cause for his hydrophobia. As a child, he was trapped in a Model A which plunged off a bridge in Michigan and plummeted into the icy waters of Lake Huron. The child was left unattended in the car due to a flat tire. His father trudged off, through the biting winter winds, to fetch a replacement inner tube.

As it was cold, the boy wisely rolled up all the windows, as tightly as possible. He did this mainly to draw on the windows with his fingers. His exhalations, of course, fogged up the glass. Even as a tot, Whitman had a facility for drawing.

He entertained himself drawing his funny-page favorites, such as Happy Hooligan, Alphonse and Gaston and Abie the Agent, blissfully unaware of what was to come.

A produce truck, its driver blinded by a piece of cardboard blown onto his windowscreen, smashed into the Model A containing the tot. The car fell off the side of the bridge and sunk to the bottom of the treacherous lake.

'Twas sheer luck that a tow barge, returning from a mission, arrived on the scene. With the aid of a police diver, the Model A was fished from the deathly water within the hour. Young Whitman was alive and well--albeit in a state of shock from both the experience and the intense cold of the briny depths.

It took Whitman years to recover from his shock. In this time, he honed his artistic skills. His greatest ambition was to have his own newspaper comic-strip feature.

Over and over, he created features, submitted them to syndicates, and had them soundly rejected. Out of desperation, he joined the Iger comics shop, and produced remarkable panelological work for various Fox Comics titles.

"Navy Undersea Jones" took great trepidation for Whitman to accept. He had to confront and relive the terrors of his childhood with each panel. Yet he threw himself into his work with relish. As you can see, he did not flinch from his duty, and he did his level best to entertain and to astound.

By this time, Whitman's hydrophobia was so advanced that he was bathed, once a week, by a hypnotist. The hypnotist would place him in a deep sleep. Then, a special nurse would clean him from head to toe. Whitman would not awake until he had been towel-dried and dressed in fresh clothing.

Because of his hydrophobia, Whitman was deemed unsuitable for military service in World War II. In 1943, he realized his lifelong dream. His comic-strip "El Diablo," about a masked cowboy avenger on the Brazilian Pampas, was accepted by the McClure Syndicate.

38 newspapers had signed on for this thrilling adventure strip. Life looked rosy for him at last!

To celebrate, he took his fiancee to Coney Island for a day of celebration. There, fate and irony combined to create tragedy. While chewing on a piece of salt-water taffy, Whitman swallowed the wrong way. The thick taffy stuck in his windpipe. Within minutes, he was dead.

Bert Whitman was buried in the Mojave Desert, as far away from water as his survivors could arrange. We shall never know what heights of panelology he might have scaled with his "El Diablo!" I doubt it could have surpassed the stunning work he achieved on the story with which I present you today.

I must go now. Dorrie has appeared, bearing a dish of Mallow-Fudge Melt. She informs me that everything is all well and good. Thus, I end today's post with a sigh of relief. See you soon--of this I assure you, my friends of the paneled arts!

Merry New Year! Special Post: The Wonders of Science--Science Comics, That Is!

2010-01-05T15:09:00.000-08:00

Friends, a bright new year is upon us. I am a bit errant in my greetings to you all. Blame it on my "Christmas presents!"

Yes, I had a fine accumulation of panelological gems awaiting me on St. Nick's morn! More than I had expected, in fact. Dorrie had to literally pry me away from my new treasures for Christmas dinner.

I had a bad case of "the jitters"--not only from Dorrie's inimitable Velvet Fog Cocoa, but from the sheer overwhelm of visual and verbal wonders that spilled forth from those golden sheaves of vintage panels and pages!

Most stunning of the many pulp-paper baubles on my docket were several long-desired issues of the early Fox Features comic magazine, Science Comics. This noble effort was a heroic failure. Talk about being too good for the market--and of being ahead of one's own time!

The features in this magazine were simply too advanced, too liberal in their daring use of the nascent comic magazine medium, to "click" with the public. Your "Joe Average" could understand the simplistic "Superman." He could "get" the thuggish thrills of the "Bat-Man." He even craved the alleged charms of "Captain Marvel."

These were features aimed at the masses. They took little concentration to enjoy. Though still hailed as classics of pioneering panelology, they leave little to satisfy or provoke the 21st century reader.

This "crowd pleaser" attitude certainly affected the most popular of the Fox Features characters. The exploits of The Blue Beetle, Samson and such, while top sellers of their day, now seem rather flaccid and dull to my eyes.

Of course, as you know I have always championed the "little guy," the "second banana," and "the undertow." I strongly feel--and I believe I'm right--that the lesser-known material is always of a higher jib, a choicer cut, than the "big guys."

Case in point: Michael Griffith's stunning episode of "Cosmic Carson," from issue #2 of Science Comics. The artwork, here, is by a young panelologist named George Tuska.

What fun he has with the medium of the comic magazine page! There is a joy of life that jumps from each thrilling frame. Modern panelologists still have much to learn from the pioneers such as Tuska.

I'll refrain from my usual report of goings-on until after today's story. I can't wait for you to revel in the stylistic stunts of "Cosmic Carson!"

Did your jaw drop when you espied the fifth page of this story? Rightfully so! Said page sent me into a "trance state" On Christmas morn!

Back in the heyday of the comic magazine "fan zine," I often published a special feature I called "Anatomy of A Page." It is far easier to attempt this formal study on the Internet.

When I published the original series in Panelological Pleasures and Panelologist's Pride, my two major "self-pubbers," as we old-timers once called them. I was unable to reproduce the pages in questions.

Thus, exhaustive verbal descriptions of the page were required of the writer--in these cases, that scribe being myself! I wore out many a hectograph stencil with these necessarily lengthy recitations of the page elements.

Via the marvelous tool that is "Photo Shop," I have been able to prove that bygone adage, "a picture is worth a thousand words."

In the diagrammed "autopsy" of Tuska's handiwork below, I believe I have sufficed in locating, identifying and cataloging the stunning and daring carnival of visual events contained on that single page...

I doubt that even the great William Eisner, in his prime, could have done so many things with a humble panelological page. The daring of youth! The innovation of those who ignore the old tropes of "It can't be done!" and "Impossible!"

Young Tuska split the comic magazine page in two with a bolt of creative lightning!

Now, I have studied a bit of "art theory," and I understand the concepts of "positive space" and "negative space." Notice how stunningly these conceits are flaunted here.

The "lightning bolt" of the panel gutters is echoed in the similarly electric charge of what I call "Occupation Points"--events of vital interest and significance to the reader. Note the downward sweep from Cosmic Carson's face to the burst, in the second panel, in which Carson's first meets the cragged face of villain "The Skull!"

Tuska's "Lightning Line" of decisive action guides our eyes through what, in lesser hands, might merely be an inept misuse of the comic magazine page. We, the audience, know exactly WHERE to look--and WHY to look there.

Parallel to this creative "bolt" is an arrow-like slant, which highlights the Powerful Flow of the Narrative Event--in this case, Cosmic Carson's bursting of his bonds, and his punch to The Skull.

I believe that my indicators of Positive and Negative Space are self-explanatory.

Is this page not unlike a familiar religious icon-- the yin yang symbol?

From PANELOLOGICAL PANTHEON

Compare the two images--and see for yourself! I wish not to "beat the pony" by over-explaining or over-analyzing. Too much of that has been done by my fellow panelological professors.

In coming posts, I shall exhibit more panelological wonders from my newly acquired Science Comics issues. Rest assured--thrills beyond comprehension await!

And now, for those of you so interested, I shall recount some recent events. 'Tis quaint--I never intended for this "blog" to be so much about my daily doings! It just happened, like the man said.

I'm pleased, friends, that you find my humble liveaday events of such interest. I trust that I shalln't overstay my welcome with these domestic recountings.

Work on Dorrie's Diner continues unabated in the new year. Carpenters invaded our home in the last week of December. Much hammering, buzzing, thudding and gruff hooliganism surrounded me in the last week of my holiday.

Such rough types are truly "the salt of this earth." Without them, would we have houses? Would we enjoy the conveniences of modern life? No sir! We would live out of doors, and still forage for food and water. Perhaps we might still brandish clubs.

'Tis supreme irony, then, that those would erect our domiciles so resemble the cavemen of ancient history!

Despite their rough language, these "barkers" had little bite. I did take exception to one builder's careless appraisal of my panelological acquisitions. As I paused to fetch a fresh glass of Vernor's ginger ale, said brute man-handled a early issue of Target Comics.

Had I not executed top speed to stop his actions, this ruffian would have FOLDED BACK THE COVERS and GOTTEN DIRT AND GREASE all over the interior pages!

"We'll have none of that, sir!" I cried. In the nick of time, I snatched the precious Target from his rugged hands and returned it to its protective envelope.

"What's the problem, dude? It's just a [blankety-blank] funny book!" the brute cried, in complaint.

"And I suppose," I uttered in reply, "those are just [blankety-blank] boards and nails you're using!"

The miscreant shrugged. "[Expletive], yeah, they're [expletive] boards an' [expletive]! So whut?"

Friends, I am not prone to physical violence, but I nearly struck this Gorgon in overalls! Instead, I gathered my new acquisitions and retreated to my den.

Later, one of the thugs committed an act of emesis on our front porch! Said fellow had complained of being "hung over like a [expletive] pig" all day. 'Twas a sad coda to a day of genuine progress for Dorrie's project.

But, in a true "silver lining" of a moment, Dorrie bade "Raydon" to mop up the outpour. How that gay blade grumbled in protest! Yet, I must admit, he did a superb job of elimating stain, spillage and odor. Should his design "racket" hit a reef, "Raydon" has a promising career ahead as a custodian!

In "otros palabros" (that is Spanish for 'other news'), young Raphael visited our household the day after Christmas. Upon his arrival, I proudly presented him with my hand-picked gift.

Dorrie brought the lad a hot mug of Velvet Fog, which he thoroughly enjoyed as he nervously unwrapped his gift parcel. "Revistas!" he cried with surprise. Raphael sniffed the bronzed vintage newsprint. He smiled. "¡Estos son revistas muy viejos, Señor Mason!"

Raphael apologized with a smile. "By this I mean... these are very aged! They must be quite rare!"

"They are yours to enjoy, Raphael," I said with warmth. "It would appear you are already a student of--did you call them 'revisas?'"

"Revistas, Señor Mason! And, si, I am most fond of these! They are most popular in my home town!"

I explained that this gift was twofold: both as an expression of my warmth and friendship for young Vazquez, and as an educational aid. "By reading these stories, you shall develop more of an ear for American speech. I sincerely feel these, er, revistas will enable you to better take your rightful place in American society!"

Tears formed in Raphael's eyes. Then he reached across the coffee table and hugged me. "You are truly my friend," he said.

Raphael stayed for dinner. Many times he asked Dorrie if such foodstuffs were to be served at her imminent bistro. Her positive answers further delighted him. "I will bring all my friends and relatives to dine here!"

Thus, there is new hope in the horizon for this youth. I trust it shall be a positive experience--one that enables him to find his American destiny!

My return to work on Monday was dreary. The sky opened up and rain poured mercilessly upon my fellow commuters. I welcomed the escape from the construction brutes and from "Raydon." I still had much back-work to collate, approve and file.

My team members looked haggard and gaunt. Unlike my quiet, contemplative New Year's Eve, theirs were ribald, distaff and, from their piquant descriptions, violently emetic as well.

Ah, the follies of youth! When I hear such tales of debauchery, I take comfort in my advancing years, and in the calm of my life. 2010 promises to be another year of panelological pleasures and life contentment for myself.

May it be thus for you, my internet friends!

I shall return soon with more gilded offerings from the pages of Science Comics!

Cheery Christmas! A Fantastic Feast of Panelological Pleasure, Concocted With Care For You, From Your "Uncle Mason!"

2009-12-24T11:11:00.000-08:00

O joyous Noel! O time of Christmas!

The actual day of joy is yet to come as I write these words. I shall be "up to my ears" in festivity and frolic on Christmas Day, so I've prepared this humble present to you, my beloved audience, well ahead of time!

Christmas and vintage comic books are entwined, in my heart, like roses on a Parisian fence. The hobby has its occasional thorns, to be sure. But, in my experience, panelology has been nothing but roses--one graceful, exotic bloom upon another.

Indeed, is the comic magazine not unlike a flower? Both are sheathed in the brightest of hues. Both exude a certain alluring fragance. And both, inside, contain much to nourish both heart and soul.

Unlike flowers, which wither and die, comic magazines grow older, but, with careful storage and "tender lovely care," they will outlive us all.

Today I present a buoyant bouquet of pure panelological pleasure! Three wondrous tales of fantasy and adventure! Tales that range from the wildest of imaginative fantasy to the most penetrating of ground-level realism! This, friends, is what panelology is all about. The thrills! The spills! The crooks! The heroes!

The raw emotion that leaps from the pulpy printed pages of these delectable bygone comic magazines!

Talk about your diamonds in the roughage!

As I did not include any news bulletins in my last post, I'll give a brief synopsis of recent events now. I don't wish to delay your immersion in four-colored joy, so I'll keep it short and sweet.

1) plans for the home-restaurant continue unabated. "Dorrie's Deep-Dish Diner" is the current title. Bert Liffler has rendered a charming caricature of "the missus" on his hand-painted signage.

2) "Raydon" is banished from my home after 5 PM. Dorrie may well need this strumpet to help plan her "chic" visuals, but I'll not have him braying at my every move! A man deserves to enjoy his cookies in restful retreat!

3) Dorrie and Raphael have met! Furthermore, she approves of him as her wait-staff. She feels that "the international touch" will be just right for our "let it all hang down" philosophy. All are welcome to our humble bistro!

To that end, I took young Vazquez clothes-shopping. He wished to purchase his raiments at a second hand store called "Snatch 'em Shack," but I insisted that we buy new off the rack garb.

We went to the South Ramp Mall, where, at Kesslinger's Family Store, suitable slacks, shirts, socks and dress shoes were found for my young ward. Raphael looked like "a million bucks" in his new "duds," and since that time he has "cleaned his action up."

He sports a neater hair-style, and his overall cleaner demeanor (I'm a poet!) suits him well indeed.

We have Raphael on a weekly retainer of fifty dollars, pending the bistro's opening day, which, if all goes well, shall occur on January 22.

4) Charlie or Chuckie has been let go at work. And guess who filled his shoes? A remorseful Jim R. He looks a bit ashen-faced. and tends to keep to himself. It is implicitly understood that the scanner is mine, and mine it shall remain. He is allowed usage of the device, after a polite inquiry as to its availability.

5) I have prepared a special gift package for Raphael. It contains one dozen "dupe" copies of Golden Age super-hero comic magazines. He has shown some interest in panelology. It is my hope that, by reading these publications, he shall become more conversant in colloquial American English. I firmly believe these "mags" will be morale-boosting and will enable him to do his job as best he can!

That's "all the news that fits to print" for now. I'm eager to get to the matter of today's "triple feature!"

The giving and enjoyment of panelological gems is part and parcel of the Yuleday experience for me. Lo, for many decades comic magazines and Christmas have gone hand in hand in the Moray household.

Although Dorrie is indifferent, at best, to my cherished comic magazines (due to paper allergies, as you may recall), she does understand their importance to me. She abets me in a little holiday ritual I've done for years.

I buy vintage comic magazines constantly, via auction lists, through trusted long-time dealers, and, on occasion, from Ebay. Tempting as it is to rip new parcels open (carefully, mind you!) and immediately savor their contents, I now entrust every third package to "the missus."

Throughout the year, she unwraps the new comic magazines and immediately places them in giftwrap. She is an expert at hiding things; that, wedded to my inevitable day-to-day forgetfulness, makes for an impressive stash of panelological pleasure, come Christmas Day.

I have purchased a great deal of cutlery, silverware, china and other essential items for Dorrie's restaurant. That is my big holiday gift to her this year.

Practical sort that she is, Dorrie will have a nice selection of new dress shirts, ties, socks and slacks to spice up my wardrobe. The real star of the show will be 2009's pile of "layaway comics."

I spend Christmas Day in slippers, pajamas and robe, curled up on the couch with a mug of Dorrie's special Velvet Fog Cocoa (soon to be served at her Diner!) and my new acquisitions. It's a splendid day for me. Christmas dinner does eventually intervene, and, afterwards, Dorrie takes me to cleaners with a rousing Scrabble match.

I believe that we shall have Mr. Liffler, from next door, over for pie and coffee on Christmas evening. I wonder if he shall wear his trademark gym shorts even on Christ's birthday? We shall soon see.

Here, for your enjoyment, are three of my favorite "finds" from 2008's "layaway program." Thus, I hope to share some true panelological pleasure with you on this day of days.

So wear your fuzziest slippers; nestle in your bushiest robe; and enjoy the finest the Pantheon has to offer!

First selection today: "Steel Sterling," from the rare second issue of Zip Comics, published in 1939. This tale exemplifies the free-wheeling early panelological styles I most dearly love. No rigid formulas governed the creation of these pioneering stories.

From "liquid fire" rays to angered polar bears, from prison riots to stirring sea-battles, this tale brims to overflowing with a plethora of graphic wonders!

"Steel Sterling" was a popular contender to the super-hero throne in 1939 and 1940. His fame was such that he was a successful write-in candidate for Iowa's gubernatorial election of 1940. The fictional Sterling got more votes than Henry Hennessey and Carl Bellings, the real-life contenders. (Bellings came in second, and, by default, became Iowa Governor later that year.)

Carl Bellings: He Lost To Steel Sterling!

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We switch gears, friends, from the all-out fantasy of "Steel Sterling" to the subdued social realism of "The Blue Circle."

This tale, from the second issue of the character's short-lived magazine, dates from 1945. This period found many comics in the doldrums. It is not my favorite era of the comic magazine.

The cover does not feature the titular hero of the magazine! As with all great experiments, "The Blue Circle" was given a lower berth, in favor of what its publishers assumed would be the most salable material within the book's pages.

Yet gems appeared, like faint rays probing the fog of a haunted harbor. "The Blue Circle" was one of the most appealing "rays" of this panelological "dark age."

Writer Mark Reasoner wanted to create an "everyman" crime-fighter--one without super powers, or an outlandish costume. His scripts for "The Blue Circle" were autobiographical.

Reasoner fashioned a costume exactly like The Blue Circle's own, from a hooded winter coat, a dress shirt and a pair of work pants. He prowled the streets of Waukeegan at night, in search of civic corruption.

The young writer never found any graft or nepotism on Waukeegan's dark streets. He did prevent a holdup, and save a few drunk drivers from an early grave.

Reasoner came out of these experiences determined he had the most valid conception yet for a panelological crime-fighter.

Artist Walt Harris proved an able partner for Reasoner. He, too, sought to capture a low-key realism on the comic book page. Harris shared Reasoner's sense of civic injustice. They sought to make "The Blue Circle" a realistic inspiration for small-town youth who wished to make, and don, a simple costume and seek out malfeasance in their midst.

Be warned: this is not a wild tale of careening fantasy! This is stark social realism at its most sobering.

I interviewed Reasoner in 1974, shortly before his death. I'll excerpt a few choice passages after this story.

Now, as promised, some excerpts from my interview with the real-life "Blue Circle," Mark Jerome Reasoner.

MASON MORAY: As I understand it, you did indeed preview your idea in real life...

MARK REASONER: Yep. Except I called myself "The Night Terror." Not that anyone ever asked me who I was.

What motivated you to become a real-life costumed crime-fighter?

Well, I tell you. You'd read the papers, and hear about graft, crooked doings in City Hall, and such. It seemed to be happening everywhere in those days.

Uh huh.

And someone had to try to take action. I liked the idea of the "masked avenger." But, let's face it. Those costumes the characters wore in the comics must have cost them a million dollars! And who could sew that well and be a crime-fighter?

I just put together some of my regular work clothes. It's what I figured a real-life "superman" would want to wear.

I take it your "Night Terror" garb was similar to that of The Blue Circle's...

Exactly the same! Except the hood was a darker blue on the original. That hood itched like hell. I tore the lining out of a winter coat to make it. There were these rough seams run along the top. They scratched me like a kitten!

Did you have any triumphs as "The Night Terror?"

Stopped one pickpocket. And I pulled a couple of drunks out of their cars. They would have died in a ditch otherwise.

I met my future wife while I was in costume. She was coming out of a show. It was late at night. I put the fear of God into her, I guess. But she asked me out on a date.

As "The Night Terror?"

Well, yes. She wouldn't have anything to do with me as Mark Reasoner.

How long did you maintain this double-identity?

Two weeks. We went to the movies and such, with me in that get-up. You couldn't hear for beans with that hood on. Then, one night, the itching got too much, and I took off the hood. Becky--my wife-to-be--was sure surprised when she learned who was really under that hood. But she got over it, and I was persistent. Sooner or later, it was all right with her.

Do you, perchance, still retain the "Night Terror" garb?

Nope. My mother threw out the costume when she cleaned the attic. I just gave it up, then and there. But I had enough experience to write "The Blue Circle." And I still got the girl! Who says crime-fighting doesn't pay?

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We return to the realms of wildest fantasy with the final, stunning episode of "Blue Blaze," from the fourth issue of Mystic Comics, published in 1940. This tale, as some of my office-mates might describe it, is a "real wild ride." Make sure your seat belt is fastened!

Series creator "Harry Douglas" is an utter mystery to myself, and to fellow panelological historians. [Specious information circulates that the feature was produced by the team of Harry Ramsey and either Douglas Grant or Douglas Ryan. This is utter fantasy, friends--both men, when interviewed, denied any knowledge or participation in the feature!]

No photographs exist of the man, Nor is it known when--and where--he lived or died.

He sent his first "Blue Blaze" story, unsolicited, to publisher Martin Goodman. Goodman liked what he saw--bold, easily-reproduced graphics, wild fantastic themes, international intrigue and hairy orange trolls. He published the story, and three subsequent episodes, in his new anthology title, Mystic Comics.

After the premiere issue went to press, Goodman realized he had no contact information for the creator! No name or address was written on the back of the original art boards, as was customary in the "trade." And the story's brown paper wrapper had been long discarded.

A month later, another "Blue Blaze" story appeared in the Timely Comics offices. This time, Goodman and his young assistant Stanley Leiber, checked the package for a possible return address. There was none! Just one word, written in red ink--"Fifty."

The creator never contacted Goodman--or anyone at Timely--with a request for payment. Yet he continued to produce "Blue Blaze" stories--literally by the bushel-load!

One Monday morning, Goodman arrived at his office to find 37 packages--each with a full-length, original "Blue Blaze" tale inside of them! The artwork was rendered on top-of-the-line illustration board.

The stories grew longer and more complex. It became apparent that they were intended as chapters in a leviathan comics "novel." Whomever "Harry Douglas" was, money was clearly no object.

I have, for decades, theorized about the promised "Vampire of Doom" episode. It did not see print. Perhaps this story marked the sea-change in "Harry Douglas"' work.

As the "Blue Blaze" stories continued to arrive, unsolicited and in increasing volume, in Goodman's office, their content became increasingly erotic, violent and unprintable. Thousands of pages of story and art flooded the Timely offices.

Full frontal male nudity and scenes of intense graphic violence, including lovingly rendered human viscera, filled these unrequested pages.

On each brown-paper parcel, in red ink, would be hand-written one word. Perhaps, had these wrappers been saved, the seemingly random words might have revealed a clue about the identity or intentions of "Harry Douglas." Stan Leiber (better-known as the phenomenal "Stan Lee") once recalled to me:

Oh, gee, pal, well that was a long time ago! I don't know. They were just regular words. Word-words. Y'know, like "tree," "night," "flesh." We had no idea. These things just kept coming in the office. After a couple of years, no one bothered to read 'em anymore. They just piled up!

And then one day, in 1951, they stopped arriving.

By then, Timely's inventory of "Blue Blaze" stories filled a large storage closet. Goodman and Leiber didn't have the heart to throw them away. The super-hero craze had long since waned--even if the stories were publishable, they had no commercial appeal.

Most of these pages were given away at office "smokers" or flipped over for practical use by other Timely staff artists.

To ensure that the near-pornographic imagery of "Douglas"'s work did not see print, large black Xs were painted over his unwanted work. To this day, one can occasionally find a re-used "Blaze" original. When located, these pages are treasured by panelological gourmets. Some collectors have attempted to reconstruct the pages, minus the X marks.

"Harry Douglas" appears to have been a mad genius of the comic magazine. Perhaps he is still alive. No one can say for certain. Via today's story, it is evident that "Douglas" was an unusual, unpredictable force in early comic magazine history.

So there it is. The first holiday feast of the wondrous Panelological Pantheon! I hope you leave this feast sated and charmed. I'll be back in the New Year with more news and more glinting gems from the heart and soul of the Pantheon!

A Public Apology To My Readers

2009-12-19T12:30:00.001-08:00

Friends, it is with heavy heart that I write the following words. I have suffered the "dark time of the soul" these past few days. But I must speak, and face my own failings.

At the same time, the words of my father, Austin Moray, ring loudly in my head:

NEVER COMPLAIN -- NEVER EXPLAIN.

In this time of sorrow, I ventured out to the Nightflower Fens Rest Home, where my father now resides. Humbly I went to seek his counsel.

He has a cozy cottage to himself (the Home is a converted highway motel that dates from the 1940s). From the parking lot could be heard his booming voice, in concert with a radio broadcast of a football game:

"WHAT ARE YOU--BLIND? THAT WAS NO FOUL!"

Although it was a chilly day, my father remains a "fresh air fiend." He had his screen door open. The volume of the radio was such that my meek tappings could not be heard.

In truth, it was hard to get a sonic purchase on the flimsy pine-and-aluminum door frame. It tended to mildly rattle, rather than produce a crisp knocking sound.

After ten minutes, I elected to forcibly enter the cottage. (The screen door was unlocked, which aided my attempts.)

My dear dad sat in a faded maroon armchair. A pint can of Diet Mountain Dew, clutched in his left hand, was visible.

"TOUCHDOWN!" my father cried. "ATTA BOY, DEMPSON! I KNEW YOU COULD DO IT, BOY! THAT'S SHOWIN' 'EM THE OL' PEPPER!"

"Father," I said, in my loudest civil speaking voice. "It's Mason, your son."

The can of soft drink fell to the floor as my father bolted in surprise. "WHOA! YOU COULD GIVE A FELLA HEART TROUBLE SNEAKIN' AROUND THAT WAY!"

The game was almost over. Out of deference to my father, I waited 'til its conclusion. Then we spoke.

Long story shortened: I confessed that I had made a public fool of myself. I had gotten my own research notes mixed-up and had presented correct facts--but attributed to the wrong individual!

As well, I noted my sorrow that accurate attempts to transcribe the Latin American dialect of my ward, Raphael Vazquez, had offended my readership. One of my "Followers," a seemingly nice Spanish fellow named Gabriel, elected to leave my blog--on account of this linguistic malfeasance, I would presume.

"WHAT DOES ALL THIS HAVE TO DO WITH A CLOG? WHAT YOU NEED IS A PLUMBER. OR YOU CAN DO IT YOURSELF--SAVE YOURSELF A LOTTA MONEY!"

I explained what a "blog" is, and after much discussion, my points were finally made clear to my father.

His advice, as ever, was succinct and helpful. "YOU GOOFED! IT HAPPENS TO EVERYONE, SON. LOOK AT EDISON. HE GOOFED, BUT PEOPLE STILL THINK OF HIM AS A GREAT MAN!"

He paused for a sip of Diet Mountain Dew (which, mysteriously, is now officially shortened to "MTN DEW" on the packaging) and continued.

"YOU DON'T OWE NOBODY AN EXPLANATION, SON. JUST 'FESS UP THAT YOU MADE A BOO-BOO, AND LET IT REST. THE WORLD WILL FORGIVE YOU. THAT IS, IF THEY'RE MAN ENOUGH TO."

It was time for my father's nightly TV "holy trinity"-- Matlock, The Rockford Files and Hazel--so I bid him adieu.

And, armed with his words of support and encouragement, I humbly state to you the following:

I, Mason James Moray, made a public error. Due to my poor penmanship of the 1960s and early 1970s, my research notes of those years are difficult for me to clearly read today.

I went to a corrective writing school in 1975, and under the supervision of Dr. Charles Fennell, I realigned my pen-hold and hand-position. I now can boast handwriting of uncommon clarity. I am forever thankful to Dr. Fennell and his "14-Zone Method."

Friends, Martin Filchock was NOT a part of the controversial "Out-Doorist" artistic movement. He was, indeed, the creator of "Fire Man" and other fine panelological features of comic books' "Gilded Age."

The artist in my notes was Marvin Pilchmore. Mr. Pilchmore was, indeed, a vital part of the "Out-Doorist" group. He did create panelological features. Among them was "Wire-Man," a clever variation on the DC Comics feature "Air Wave."

Pilchmore's character was given the powers of the telegraph. He could travel via electrical impulses, over telegraph wires. He had the clever gimmick of addressing his villains thusly: "Okay, Mattigan, you're all washed up! Stop!"

Or: "Here's where you hit my big fist with your little chin! Stop!"

"Wire-Man," clever though it was, never saw print in the United States. I have never seen printed copies of the stories. They appeared in an obscure Canadian weekly supplement to a Catholic magazine for boys, The Guiding Lamp.

Mr. Pilchmore appeared at the 1970 ExcitaCon in Cincinatti, Ohio, where he displayed his charming original art boards for the first "Wire-Man" tale. His asking price for the entire story's art was 45 dollars--a king's ransom in those bygone days! How I wish I had gambled my bankroll on those exquisite originals.

I took some Polariod pictures of the artwork, but given my malformed, unsteady penmanship, I also took a poor, shaky picture. Thus, all that remains on the snapshot is a blur of white paper and blue-black linework. 'Tis a sad loss to panelological history.

I am delighted to hear of Mr. Filchock's successful career in Christian Science, and of his other panelological achievements. I wish him well in his future career. I apologize for the confusion. Were you to peruse my 1970 notes, you might just as easily make the same error as did I.

Now, as to the other matter: I meant no offense. I am something of a student of linguistics--albeit unlicensed and untutored. I take great joy in the rich variety of pronunciations and voicings of we human beings.

If I have offended any Latin Americans with my sincere attempt at honest transcription, I deeply apologize and regret the hurts I have caused you. From his moment on, any reportage of Raphael's dialogue will be written in "The Kingly English," just as I describe the words of Anglo-Saxons and Caucasians.

I further regret that I have no story to share with you today. I felt that it was important to "claim the air" and I hope you will allow me my humanity, and forgive a well-meaning panelologist for the poor penmanship--and sincere transcription--of his past.

That said, I must also take mention of an apparent enemy in my midst. This fellow complained at great length about me on his blog. I shall be gentleman enough not to name names, or blogs. Let us just say that I shall not be wearing my "beach hat" anytime soon!

That quip aside, I must sincerely state that, as the Ink Spots once sang, "To Each His Own." Live and let live, sir. Although I do not entirely approve of your approach to the study of comic book stories, or, to use the official term, "panelology," I feel that there is room for everyone, and their opinions--regardless of their strength or conviction.

Let us strive to create a rich tapestry of panelological offerings, and not enmire one another in petty squabbles.

I rest my case.