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

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?

v

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

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"

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.


\






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!!!!

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!