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

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!

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

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!

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 (!)

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

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...