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!

Another Public Apology

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

B ESTL UNCH FOR Y OU
NGO SSNAK-SHA K

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

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

ALL YOU EAT
$5 FIVE DOLLAR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Navy Jones Fights Undersea Terrorism--from Science Comics#2--plus Diner News Galore!

Salutations, dear lovers of the panelological arts! I write this amidst a hurly-burly of smoke, water and a great deal of running about.

You see, Dorrie's Diner has just suffered its first cruel blow of fate. And just as it was going like gang-breakers! Worry not, dear companions--we're not down from the count! We've just been forced to purchase a new restaurant-grade microwave oven.

The culprit: Dorrie's delicate, satisfying Turkey-Jerky Swiss-Cheese Souffle. There is little on this globe to match its smooth yet smoky flavor. But its delicate, lighter-than-clouds "mouth appeal" depends on a final two-minute trip in the microwave oven.

The $3,000 restaurant-grade microwave we have installed (thank goodness for warranties! We shall get a replacement free of charge, shipping included) has a most confusing interface. If one wishes to heat an entree for two minutes, one must depress the numbers thusly:

0200

A simple confusion of digits, and one might accidentally program the machine to cook for twenty minutes, not two. 'Tis what happened.

I realize that I've started in the middle--but there has been so very much afoot here at Maison Moray that I scarcely know just whence to commence. Thus, I have not been able to devote any time to my dear and near "blog."

I hope to make up for lost days here. As was my promise, I continue to offer golden gems from the startling, scintillating Science Comics--perhaps my single favorite comic-book series of them all!

First, the good news:

Dorrie's Down-Home Diner successfully opened for business on January 13th. We chose that day as a publicity "gag," since many believe the 13th day to be a bad omen for business.

Pearl Kruger, the local restaurant critic for the Courier-Express, was among those awaiting the first opening of our doors. She and Dorrie are "thicker than thieves," and we were tacitly assured a stellar critique in the local paper.

Here 'tis, in full:


Dorrie wept with joy when the newspaper with this raving review arrived. It was as if the heavens above deemed her supreme happiness for all her hard work!

Raphael has become one of the Diner's many assets. He possesses a great personal charm--an aspect of his character not clearly seen by myself 'til now.

He is quick with a smile, and is a skillful composer of kitchen orders. As well, he has proven a quick study. From the stack of precious Golden Age comic books I gave him recently, he has gleaned a number of charming colloquialisms, with which he avails upon Dorrie's happy customers.

"Wot'll it be, youse mugs?" he is often heard to say, when approaching new diners with his order pad. Exclamations of "Yikes!," "Jimminies!" and "Yowp!" are uttered as he presents customers with their beverages and entrees.

Raphael broke up the house when Police Chief Earl Smothers visited the Diner yesterday. His alarmed cry of "Cheezit-- da cops!" made everyone (even Smothers!) burst out in joyous laughter.

As well, his approach to collecting the bill from sated diners has its rococo charm. "C'mon, youse yeggs--cough up da dough, 'afore I get rough on yez!" Raphael is a large part of our humble "mom and pop" bistro's "hip" charms.

Aside from smoke damage to the curtains, and a thoroughly scorched glass warming tray, the Diner is none the worse from today's blaze.

'Tis now I must confess: 'twas I who mis-punched those fateful digits! In the bustle of orders and chit-chat, the souffle was forgotten about as it cooked--and cooked--and cooked.

The entree burst into flames--with sufficient force to blow the oven's double-seal door off its hinges. Fragments of flaming jerky, strewn with skin-scalding melted cheese, peppered the counter and the ceiling.

Thank heavens no one was hurt by this flying, flaming debris! We could have been law-suited out of business!

I am banished to my study while the firemen clean up the damage and remove the destroyed oven. While I feel sheepish, I take relief in knowing that no lives were harmed, and that the accident has not incurred more financial hardship upon us.

While "serving my time," I recalled this dear blog, and my commitment to the ongoing presentation of my panelological treasures.

Back into the second issue of Science Comics I dip my cup. 'Tis my thrill to present to you "Navy Undersea Jones." I grudgingly consulted the "Big Comic-Book Database," in search of the artist of this stunning story.

As they would have it, this is the work of a Bert Whitman. His bold poster-like pages, repetition of imagery, and literally explosive final page mark this as a high water-mark in early American panelology.

If this is the Bert Whitman I'm thinking of, I have an anecdote about him. I shall save it as a dessert to this "main entree" of magic.











Full-page battle scenes! Stunning usage of negative spaces! A finale worthy of a Picasso! This "Navy Undersea Jones" story offers lovers of the paneled art everything that is good about the form.

I would dearly love to create some diagrammatics for certain pages here, as I did for last post's "Cosmic Carson" tale. Alas, this computer lacks "Photo Shop," and I am powerless to make such a display here. Suffice to say that Bert Whitman shared with George Tuska an undying love for the use of extreme negative space.

If this is, indeed the Bert Whitman I know of, this story carries a particular irony. You see, Whitman was terrified of water--even bath water! His nickname amongst his peers was "Bathless Bertie."

Poor Whitman had good cause for his hydrophobia. As a child, he was trapped in a Model A which plunged off a bridge in Michigan and plummeted into the icy waters of Lake Huron. The child was left unattended in the car due to a flat tire. His father trudged off, through the biting winter winds, to fetch a replacement inner tube.

As it was cold, the boy wisely rolled up all the windows, as tightly as possible. He did this mainly to draw on the windows with his fingers. His exhalations, of course, fogged up the glass. Even as a tot, Whitman had a facility for drawing.

He entertained himself drawing his funny-page favorites, such as Happy Hooligan, Alphonse and Gaston and Abie the Agent, blissfully unaware of what was to come.

A produce truck, its driver blinded by a piece of cardboard blown onto his windowscreen, smashed into the Model A containing the tot. The car fell off the side of the bridge and sunk to the bottom of the treacherous lake.

'Twas sheer luck that a tow barge, returning from a mission, arrived on the scene. With the aid of a police diver, the Model A was fished from the deathly water within the hour. Young Whitman was alive and well--albeit in a state of shock from both the experience and the intense cold of the briny depths.

It took Whitman years to recover from his shock. In this time, he honed his artistic skills. His greatest ambition was to have his own newspaper comic-strip feature.

Over and over, he created features, submitted them to syndicates, and had them soundly rejected. Out of desperation, he joined the Iger comics shop, and produced remarkable panelological work for various Fox Comics titles.

"Navy Undersea Jones" took great trepidation for Whitman to accept. He had to confront and relive the terrors of his childhood with each panel. Yet he threw himself into his work with relish. As you can see, he did not flinch from his duty, and he did his level best to entertain and to astound.

By this time, Whitman's hydrophobia was so advanced that he was bathed, once a week, by a hypnotist. The hypnotist would place him in a deep sleep. Then, a special nurse would clean him from head to toe. Whitman would not awake until he had been towel-dried and dressed in fresh clothing.

Because of his hydrophobia, Whitman was deemed unsuitable for military service in World War II. In 1943, he realized his lifelong dream. His comic-strip "El Diablo," about a masked cowboy avenger on the Brazilian Pampas, was accepted by the McClure Syndicate.

38 newspapers had signed on for this thrilling adventure strip. Life looked rosy for him at last!

To celebrate, he took his fiancee to Coney Island for a day of celebration. There, fate and irony combined to create tragedy. While chewing on a piece of salt-water taffy, Whitman swallowed the wrong way. The thick taffy stuck in his windpipe. Within minutes, he was dead.

Bert Whitman was buried in the Mojave Desert, as far away from water as his survivors could arrange. We shall never know what heights of panelology he might have scaled with his "El Diablo!" I doubt it could have surpassed the stunning work he achieved on the story with which I present you today.

I must go now. Dorrie has appeared, bearing a dish of Mallow-Fudge Melt. She informs me that everything is all well and good. Thus, I end today's post with a sigh of relief. See you soon--of this I assure you, my friends of the paneled arts!

"Mars" Mason in: "Now--For Uranus!" from Speed Comics 10, 1940--Plus Big News!

Brother Tumry, how prescient your words have proved! Tho' limned with condescending intent (as though I, a home-owning adult, would turn to the likes of Power Nelson for serious advice!), your basic idea has come remarkably true.

My home may soon become a restaurant! And we may soon have an employee!

How shall I begin this byzantine tale? I suppose it's best to start where it started--with an ultimatum, delivered 'neath the stark overhead lights of our kitchen, from Dorrie herself:

"Who do you love more: me, or those--comic books?"

This came at a moment in which I was prepared to make a health sacrifice, and request a few of Dorrie's Double-Dipped Fudge Mocha Meringue Bars. I'd had a clean bill of health for the past two weeks, and felt I could brook a sublime treat or two without doing much harm.

'Twas as this loving request prepared to issue from my lips that the "little woman" threw down the gauntlet.And with such a searing question! How could any lifelong panelologist truly answer that query--or explain their motives and needs?

One might as well ask: "Whom do you love more: oxygen or myself?"

But her question was fated to remain unanswered. Before my stunning, trembling lips could summon or form words of reply, Dorrie spoke.

"Sit," she said, pointing to the breakfast nook table.

I'm a sensible man; I sat. She poured a tall glass of chocolate milk-shake, fresh from the blender. She set it before me. "Drink," she commanded.

Friends, you who have not tasted one of Dorrie's milk-shakes---you I pity. Though my heart raced with uncertainty, the velvet solace of the creamy, chocolate-infused beverage soothed my uncertain soul.

"That doctor is trying to tear us apart," Dorrie said. "You've always loved my cooking. I've enjoyed every treat I've ever made for you. Even the midnight snacks! They--they gave me something to do... and now that's gone..."

I began to uncontrollably guzzle the divine "shake," and soon emptied my glass. Without thinking, I held the drained vessel up for a refill.

Without thinking, Dorrie refilled the cup.

Such is the core of our relationship: the provider and the provided; the manufacturer and the consumer. I knew that to drink the second glass was to tempt fate--and foot. But I knew I had to do it--and that I had to hear out my spouse in her moment of crisis.

I'll spare you a transcript of the speech I received, and concentrate on the highlights:

a) Dorrie loathes Dr. Doynter, and distrusts him

b) Dorrie has a need to cook, bake and broil; she described it as "her
life's blood"

c) Dorrie has allergy issues with my cherished comic magazines! She
does not inherently loathe the art-form of panelology--'tis the molds
and allergens trapped within their time-goldened pages that poses a
problem. (At last--the truth is out!)

d) If "that doctor" won't let me eat "the food I love," then Dorrie
demands the right to make foodstuffs--and to have someone appreciative
enjoy them.

Sensing a pause, I attempted to inject levity. "Perhaps," I quipped, "you might turn our guest room into a bistro of some sort--say, 'Dorrie's Diner,' or 'Maison Moray...'"

Dorrie's eyes brightened like the summer sun. "Oh, Mace!" She hugged me, tears brimming in her eyes. "You understand! Why--that's a wonderful idea! We have those garden tables in storage... all we'll need is some chairs, and table-cloths--and menus! Yes, menus..."

With that, Dorrie left the kitchen and sat on the living-room couch, yellow legal pad and pencil in hand. For hours, she muttered to herself, writing down entree names, pairing items, erasing and re-writing, laughing as she delighted in her fresh ideas...

It reminded me of bygone days, wherein I sat, pad and pencil in hand, and constructed definitive content listings of Golden Age comic magazines. These became an invaluable aid to me--and to my fellow panelologists. I had them professionally printed, and for years, they provided a second income for me.

I had, earlier that day, come across one of the few unsold copies of my magnum opus, The Cross-Indexed, Creator and Feature-Themed Guide to Speed Comics. This 112-page opus took me almost nine months of painstaking study to compile.

As a result of this, I recalled a feature in Speed Comics that had, indeed, brought me a good deal of "ribbing" years back. You'll understand why upon immediate sight of its "splash" panel.

The next morning, as I prepared for my return to the office, she by-passed me, as I ate bran flakes with skim milk and briefly perused the morning newspaper. "I'm off for the permit," she said, a smile in her voice.

"Permit," I repeated. Then it all became clear: Dorrie was hell-bent on realizing her dream of a home restaurant! I chuckled as I chewed the healthful bran. Surely civic zoning laws would not permit a place of business to be conducted in a residence!

Dorrie's exuberance was endearing, but I feared she would hit the brick wall of red tape before I settled into my desk at the office.

You may recall a comment I made on the expected condition of my desk, upon my return to the office. I'm sad to say that prophesy was highly accurate.

As I entered the office, briefcase in hand, the new employee (Charlie? Chuckie?) looked at me, startled. "Mister Murray! We thought you were still in the hospital!"

I glanced at my desk. It was a mound of waste and neglect. Heaped atop it were:

31 flattened "Funyuns" sacks
14 assorted car, truck and taxidermy magazines
the remnants of an egg-salad sandwich, on a paper plate
a replica of the Constitution, printed on parchment paper
several half-worked "Jumble" newspaper puzzles
4 photos of Amelia Earhart, printed from an internet search
two Illinois license plates, dated 1988

"We were doin' some cleanin'," Charlie or Chuckie said, as he gestured to my desk. "This was a, a..."

"Staging area," a man named Roy said. "Staging area."

"We'll clean it up, Mr. Murray," Charlie said, penitence in his adolescent voice.

I chatted with the district manager as the errant lads cleaned their debris off my desk. He asked about my experience with gout, and I informed him the bulk of the story--all of which my faithful readers and followers know by heart.

Before I knew it, it was lunch time. My fellow "team members" had hastily organized a "welcome back Mister Murray" lunch event at the nearby Sizzle Stop, a steak and salad place across the highway.

Moments before we left, en masse, my phone jangled. It was Dorrie. "Mace! I got the permit! They're sending a health inspector out today!"

"They'll allow us to run a bistro in our home?"

"Turns out half our lot is zoned for commercial use! Mace, the dividing line runs right through our living room!"

"You're sure about this?"

Dorrie giggled. "Of course!"

"By that I mean: you're sure you want to open our home to hungry strangers? What about our private life? I don't want to come home to..."

"I'm just going to serve lunch. It will be a great second income for us. We can use the extra money, Mace..."

I sighed audibly. I'd only suggested this scheme as a mood-lightener. I had (and have) mixed feelings about the very idea.

"What we need now is a waiter," Dorrie said.

Thus, this new chapter in my spouse's life has been put on temporary hold. We await the stern inspection of the Health Department. Then comes the search for a responsible, amiable wait-person to serve our horde of ravenous malingerers.

Friends, I dearly hope Dorrie's mad scheme will be foiled! It pains me to say this! In the meantime, as my health improves, I shall keep a low profile, and pray all this blows over, like an ill wind.

Post script: I somehow wound up paying for my own "welcome back" luncheon. Well, 'tis the thought that matters.

Today's story is unrelated to the current themes of change and chaos in my life. I'd thought of selecting a story that had to do with restaurants and food, but I had Speed Comics "in the brain," and I made a furtive late-night visit to The Pantheon.

Mister Liffler's lights were out. I carefully unlocked and entered The Pantheon. The fates were kind to me. My Speeds are in box V-7, which is on the top layer of Row Four, in the front.

In mere momemts, I held the issue containing today's fanciful tale of inter-galactic postal adventure. Our hero's name was often used as an unrequested nick-name by my fellow panelologists for myself, in the 1960s and '70s. It is to those departed, disenfranchised and dislocated comrades of the comic magazine that I dedicate today's rousing tale.








Inter-planetary intrigue! Threaded heat-rays! Monsters soothed by ice on the North Pole! This entry of "'Mars' Mason" is amongst the finest of the long-running series.

As with many pioneering panelological features, "'Mars'" was conducted under the umbrella of a pen-name. "Glen Ross" was, in reality, four people: Sam GLandzky, Emeril ENright, Budd ROgan and FerriS Skelton. (I've taken the liberty of making it obvious where the pen-name was derived.)

These four fellows drew "'Mars' Mason" from a remote Forest Station outposts in Wyoming and Nebraska! The young rangers discovered comic magazines, and developed a quick passion for them. Each man worked solo at a different forest outpost. Glandzky was the series' writer.

He penned his "Mason" scripts on the back of forest reports. They were sent, via horseback messenger, to penciller Enright. Once his sketches were complete, a Native American traveled 32 miles on foot to deliver the pages to inker Rogan. Finally, the pages were mailed to letterer/firefighter Skelton. His was the final responsibility of shipping the completed tales to Harvey Comics' Fourth Avenue offices in Manhattan.

The four men never met in person. They never saw one another. Their sole mode of contact was via short-wave radio. They had originally attempted to craft a comic-magazine feature about a forest ranger--only to have this "sore-fire" idea nixed!

At the time, a craze for stories of mail delivery caused many comic magazine publishers to create their own "postman" feature. Alas, these series were typically set in the Old West, or in small-town America. "Glen Ross" had a genuinely clever scheme--send the postman to the far reaches of outer space!

The feature ended when Skelton was suddenly fired from his ranger position. He had been falsifying his tax records to save money. Alas, news of Skelton's departure did not reach the other three creators for 18 months. In that time, they wrote and drew another 15 "Mason" episodes, destined never to see the light of day.

It is believed these unpublished stories were burned by Skelton's unwitting successor. No one knows for certain what happened to these unlettered episodes. The secret died with Skelton, who was killed in the Pacific Theater in 1945.

The roots of panelology teem with sad tales such as this one. We can only be thankful that we have the handful of "'Mars' Mason" stories to enjoy--and cherish!

Future entries in this "blog" shall, no doubt, teem with drama themselves. Your humble host may be rubbing elbows with America's hungry!

Well, it's almost quitting time here at the office. I almost dread returning home...but I must summon the courage to see what my dear spouse is cooking up--quite literally!