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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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












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

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

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

Salutations, my four-color friends!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Masorooni!

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

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

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

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

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

It's chilly here at night, so I wear a blue wool cap and a Pepsi sweatshirt I won in a raffle. There I was, just taking my evening constitutional--

when danger struck!

Three teenage hoodlums were kicking a Coke machine. With every kick, a free can of soda tumbled down--and into their thieving little hands. The brats weren't even drinking the stuff. Just shaking the cans up good, then spraying each other with the soda!

Something had to be done.

"You kids stop that!" I shouted.

They looked up, startled. Soda dripped from their pimpled faces.

"That's right! I'm givin' you ten seconds to clear out of here."

"Or what?" The boys' beefy ring-leader, a thug in a letterman's jacket, sneered at me.

"Or this," I cried. I lifted my sweat-shirt to show them my surgical scars.

That did it! Those punks cleared out like a pack of scared kittens.

I had stopped crime from happening!

They had left one can of unopened soda in the machine. I figured I might need it for evidence, so I took it along. (Sad to report that I drank the evidence, but I've saved the can, just in case.)

Since that fateful night, I've converted my knit cap into a face mask. (I have to wear my reading glasses over the mask, because I can't see for squat at night.)

I make my nightly "rounds." My mask hidden under my sweatshirt, I walk past the night staff. Little do they realize I live a double life.

Turning the corner, I take off my specs, put on the mask (and the glasses) and make my nightly patrol.

So far, I've only seen one crime--a guy running a red light. I got his license plate number and called it in to the cops.

Yes, "Super Senior" is on the prowl for crime! Tell you what, Mason--it's every bit as exciting as our favorite comic-mag stories. Moreso, because it's happening in real life!

I encourage you to consider making your own costume and patrolling your own neighborhood. I'm sure there's crime afoot, and a guy like you could stop those punks far better than I.

PS: Enclosed is a drawing I did the other day. My nephew Brock fancies himself a cartoonist, and I thought we'd put together a "tie-in" comic mag. This is my concept for the front cover. I think it'll sell like hotcakes!

Speaking of hotcakes, sounds like you and the missus are peddling plenty of those via your new bistro! "Super Senior" may have to make a special pit-stop there. That is, if they'll let me out of this nut-bin!

Heroically yours,
"Sparks"

You can well imagine the worry this missive has caused me. Moreso, the accompanying sketch, reproduced below:



Friends, it is one thing to enjoy the exploits of our favorite panelological heroes. 'Tis another to take their actions into the workaday world. "Sparks" has plenty of pep, but he's older than I, and all alone in the world.

"We should do something," Dorrie agreed when I showed her the letter and drawing.

We cannot have him committed--he is already in the "nut bin," to use his own colorful colloquialism. It's clear that he needs more guidance and understanding than he is currently being given.

Dorrie and I are considering the option of inviting "Sparks" to stay with us, pending his acceptance into the retirement community my father resides in. It is a bit of a burden, taking one more into an already-crowded household. Perhaps Wallace can be of use in the cafe.

Heaven knows, the man needs something to do--a focus for all his intense energy. Just knowing that he wanders the streets of his town--in a mask!--at night brings me worry. Last night, my usually restful sleep was frequently broken by nightmares.

To calm myself, in the still of the night, I crept out into the living room. By flashlight, I read the following story, from my precious Science Comics #2. It helped me find peace. Thus, I share it now with you...













Harold Weber, talented writer-artist of "Dynamo," infuses this familiar, albeit lively early costumed-hero adventure with a curious finis: the gold-plating of a group of criminal thugs!

One would assume they have been slaughtered via this process, as explained in the "Wikapedia:"

Gold plating is a method of depositing a thin layer of gold on the surface of other metal, most often copper or silver.

Gold plating is often used in electronics, to provide a corrosion-resistant electrically conductive layer on copper, typically in electrical connectors and printed circuit boards. With direct gold-on-copper plating, the copper atoms have the tendency to diffuse through the gold layer, causing tarnishing of its surface and formation of an oxide/sulfide layer. A layer of a suitable barrier metal, usually nickel, has therefore to be deposited on the copper substrate, forming a copper-nickel-gold sandwich.

Metals may also be coated with gold for ornamental purposes, using a number of different processes usually referred to as gilding.

It would seem fatal to the human nervous system to be thus gold-plated.

I am suddenly significantly less comforted by this panelological escapade! I am, indeed, troubled, friends.

Our restaurant runs like a Swiss watch--with Dorrie's impeccable cuisine, Raphael's high-profile customer service, and my astute financial management and cash register operation. Dare we introduce a "wild card" to this delicate balance? Would "Sparks" fit into this regime--or would he prove its downfall?

Again, I beseech you kind readers for your "two cent worth" of opinion. And, as ever, my sincere thanks for your perusal of this humble forum.

Wild Thrills From Science Comics 6: "Marga the Panther Woman!" -- with important P.S. added!

Friends, let it be said that your encouragements and kind accolades genuinely touch my heart and soul. They have been a beacon in the fog for myself, during a time of chaos and change.

I wish I could "post" here everyday, to better satisfy my faithful, kind readership. But there is much at stake to keep me away from my beloved panelology this new year!

Biggest news first: I have been retired from the "insurance game!"

I was offered a handsome early retirement package from my employers. They are among the many businesses affected by the "downsizery" of the American economy. Let's call a spade a spade--it's a Depression, folks!

My former employers referred to the very generous offer as a "severe package." In that it was severely good fortune for me to accept it, I concur.

You shalln't hear me singing that old "standard," "Brother, Can You Spare Some Change?" The sum they offered was startlingly large. As well, my full medical benefits will continue unabated for the next two years.

At last--at long last I have the bulk of my day to devote to the pursuit of panelology! Ye olde eBay purchases shall have to "downsize" a bit. But not entirely! I have worked out a budget, and it seems that, with my investments and stocks, I can afford around $1,000 a year to spend, free and clear, on vintage comic magazines.

Truth told? The job was merely a meaning to an end. Just a place to go and pass the hours. My heart was never in that line of work. Meaningless amortizations! Tax tables of maddening inscrutability! Triplicate forms with their flesh-endangering staples! Let the "young bucks" have all that "malarkey!" I've served my time--I'm now a free man!

Well, not entirely "free." Dorrie's Diner has been surprisingly and consistently popular. So much so that the "missus" has asked me aboard, to serve as ersatz manager and cashier. 'Tis a charming place to spend the day, and our 8 AM to 3 PM schedule allots the later afternoon and evening hours for the study of panelologic art.

Raphael has flowered in his role as maitre'd to our bistro. He has grown a magnificent moustache--something like that sported by Geraldo Rivera in his television heyday. He greets each customer, familiar or first-timer, with a dramatic bow and a sweeping gesture of his extended right arm, ushering them with warmth and welcome to our humble eatery.

This dramatic gesture only met with tragedy once--when Raphael did not see the elderly sister of ex-mayor Mervin Johnson. Poor Darlene (better-known as "Li'l Pea"), whose vision has been dimmed by cruel time, did not see Raphael's sweeping arm coming towards her. Because her forehead is exactly the height of Raphael's elbow, he did not see her, either.

His flat palm hit "Li'l Pea" directly on her cheek. This sent her glasses flying into a diner's soup. Her top dentures skidded into the kitchen area, where it pinged against the metal mop bucket. No harm was done. I honestly do not think Mrs. Johnson even noticed the blow--or, perhaps, not even felt it.

The accident made the morning paper (on the last page of the Local News section). "BISTRO WAITER SLAPS EX-MAYOR JOHNSON'S KIN" was a headline that made all of us at the Diner cringe. Yet no one criticized Raphael--or the rest of the crew--for this mishap.

In fact, "Li'l Pea" has become a daily customer to the Diner. She especially loves Dorrie's Mediterranean Fish Stick Salad. (Dorrie must liquify it in her restaurant-grade Cuisinart blender so that Mrs. Johnson can consume it with ease.)

Raphael has become increasingly conversant in American "slang" lingo, to the growing delight of our patronage. "Hey Rube!" is a typical greeting to our diners, along with such "crowd-pleasers" as "Wot'll yez have?" and "Reach, you rats! I'm takin' you in!"

The supply and demand of a cafe, even one as humble as ours, is as exacting as my former job any day. Without vital food ingredients, delivered fresh on a daily basis, our goose is cooked--if you'll allow the pun. Thus, Raphael and I are charged to make a daily "shopping run."

We do not shop at the traditional grocery store. No sir! As genuine restaurateurs, we are allowed access to wholesale food suppliers. Our main source is Shakey's Grocery Guild, which is in a seemingly sinister industrial road on the edge of town.

Within a gigantic galvanized tin quonset, amidst the roar of massive freezer cases, the foodstuffs to feed a nation of diners is sold for surprisingly affordable prices. Fellows named "Bud" and "Grumpy" vend these secret wares. They are a hard-nosed lot, and one must approach them on their terms.

I have found Raphael's adopted patois most engaging to these wholesalers. "Wot's fer sale, youse mugs?" gained us entree to what "Grumpy" called "the good meats." The squinting, perpetually bitter-looking balding man let us into a locked meat freezer. "If half th' rest'rants in this town knew about this here room, they'd be on us like white on rice," he said.

"Grumpy" then slammed the heavy door shut on the freezing room--stranding us inside its sub-zero climes! By the time our plight dawned on us, the old man was far away. Raphael tried to call the outside world with his "celled phone," but there was no reception. We simply had to wait 10 minutes before the wizened gnome returned to open the door.

He looked surprised to find us within the frosty tomb. "You guys again!" he exclaimed.

We retreated with a sufficient stock of beef, chicken and pork to serve our public for one more day of business. Such trials befall the "little men" of business each day, in every town!

I am glad we can now serve "the good meats" to our customers. I shudder to consider the quality of the meats we acquired from Shakey's Grocery Guild prior to this incident!

One must purchase common ingredients in bulk. Several of Dorrie's recipes involve large portions of tomato catsup. Thus, we buy our "ketchup" not in pint bottles, but in ten-pound plastic drums.

Eggs are purchased in quantities of 12 dozen--enough for Paul Bunyan's breakfast! Sugar, flour, rice and other "staples" come in fat burlap sacks, as do salt and pepper. But without these bulk portions, our business is doomed to failure. For of what use is a restaurant that cannot deliver on the promises of its menu?

In what passes for my spare time, I still peruse the golden gains of my recent holiday comic magazine acquisitions. Thrills and surprises still issue forth from these mellowed, time-bronzed pages!

Again I dip my cup from the seemingly eternal well that is Science Comics. From issue 6 of this tragically short-lived magazine, I choose today's tale--a sterling and shocking episode of "Marga, the Panther Woman!" It is a supreme achievement of Burl Whitacre--among the few Golden-Aged comic book creators who is still alive and active as an artist! Read on, dear friend...








Even at the time of its 1940 publication, Burl Whitacre's work spoke of older eras. Born in 1896, Whitacre can boast of being alive during three centuries. By 1912, Whitacre was an accomplished wood engraver. He supplied "lino cuts" for various small town newspapers in his home state of Missouri.

The primitive but striking look he perfected in his "lino cuts" translated easily into the tools of the panelologist's trade. There is something of the America of the 19th century in his florid, arresting compositions, and in his blunt but forceful ink-work.

Whitacre was out of comic magazines by 1942--for different reasons than most of his peers. Too old to serve in the Second World War, Whitacre quit the field to become a Franciscan monk.

As he later wrote in his memoirs, Always an Artist:

In my line of work, I drew terror every day. For the newspapers, it was killings, muggings, wars, diseases. For the "funny books," it was fangs, claws, blood, monsters, fiends and vixens.

I had to draw--get me? My hands couldn't rest long on a piece of paper. Faced with a woodblock and a set of cutting tools, I ached to carve an image into being.

But all these visions of cruelty--I could bear them no longer! I searched and searched for a means in which to put my gifts to a higher use.

I read an article in the paper about a monastery in northern California where the monks still did illuminated manuscripts. Here was a way to satisfy that itchy feeling! To always have a need for my fingers to grasp a creative tool and draw--draw--draw!

In the midst of brutal war, I became a monk, and withdrew from the world. It brought me a peace I felt from head to toe... a peace that renews itself every morning, no matter whether I am working on a golden curlicue of a holy document, or lettering the signs for a bake sale. It is all good work. It is the work I intend to continue until my dying day.

That day has yet to come. At age 114, Whitacre still works each day in the monastery. His flowing, elegant illuminated manuscripts have been showcased in art museums--while his bake-sale, rummage-sale and "NO PARKING HERE" signs are highly coveted by collectors of "outsider art." (For those not in the know, that means artwork that was intended to be posted and viewed outside. Weather conditions being what they are, this 'outsider art' seldom survives. Hence, its great value to collectors.)

Whitacre may have felt ashamed of his bloody, brutal work for the comic magazines, but one cannot deny its flair, excitement and eye-appeal. In this panelologist's humble opinion, Whitacre's work puts that of the highly over-rated Fletcher Hanks to shame.

On that note, I must end this happy missive. My apologies for the infrequency of these "blog" efforts. I shall do my best to assure that you do not have such a long wait between "posts" in the future.

Until next time, bless you all, my four-color friends, and may wisdom and calm guide your steps!

POST SCRIPT!!! I have just been informed, from my comrade in panelology Paul Timey (I deeply apologize for mis-spelling your name in past posts, sir), of a delightful new site--another of these "blogs"--entitled Comic Book Attic.

These fellows have a terrific idea for bringing the panelologic art to the computer. I shall most certainly be in contact with them directly, to bring forth a couple of my dream projects: The Complete Shock Gibson, The Complete Pyroman, and The Quality Humor Filler Pages of Bernard Dibble. In the meantime, friends, I urge you to peruse their "blog" and see for yourself!

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

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

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

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

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

0200

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

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

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

First, the good news:

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

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

Here 'tis, in full:


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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











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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merry New Year! Special Post: The Wonders of Science--Science Comics, That Is!

Friends, a bright new year is upon us. I am a bit errant in my greetings to you all. Blame it on my "Christmas presents!"

Yes, I had a fine accumulation of panelological gems awaiting me on St. Nick's morn! More than I had expected, in fact. Dorrie had to literally pry me away from my new treasures for Christmas dinner.

I had a bad case of "the jitters"--not only from Dorrie's inimitable Velvet Fog Cocoa, but from the sheer overwhelm of visual and verbal wonders that spilled forth from those golden sheaves of vintage panels and pages!

Most stunning of the many pulp-paper baubles on my docket were several long-desired issues of the early Fox Features comic magazine, Science Comics. This noble effort was a heroic failure. Talk about being too good for the market--and of being ahead of one's own time!

The features in this magazine were simply too advanced, too liberal in their daring use of the nascent comic magazine medium, to "click" with the public. Your "Joe Average" could understand the simplistic "Superman." He could "get" the thuggish thrills of the "Bat-Man." He even craved the alleged charms of "Captain Marvel."

These were features aimed at the masses. They took little concentration to enjoy. Though still hailed as classics of pioneering panelology, they leave little to satisfy or provoke the 21st century reader.

This "crowd pleaser" attitude certainly affected the most popular of the Fox Features characters. The exploits of The Blue Beetle, Samson and such, while top sellers of their day, now seem rather flaccid and dull to my eyes.

Of course, as you know I have always championed the "little guy," the "second banana," and "the undertow." I strongly feel--and I believe I'm right--that the lesser-known material is always of a higher jib, a choicer cut, than the "big guys."

Case in point: Michael Griffith's stunning episode of "Cosmic Carson," from issue #2 of Science Comics. The artwork, here, is by a young panelologist named George Tuska.

What fun he has with the medium of the comic magazine page! There is a joy of life that jumps from each thrilling frame. Modern panelologists still have much to learn from the pioneers such as Tuska.

I'll refrain from my usual report of goings-on until after today's story. I can't wait for you to revel in the stylistic stunts of "Cosmic Carson!"









Did your jaw drop when you espied the fifth page of this story? Rightfully so! Said page sent me into a "trance state" On Christmas morn!

Back in the heyday of the comic magazine "fan zine," I often published a special feature I called "Anatomy of A Page." It is far easier to attempt this formal study on the Internet.

When I published the original series in Panelological Pleasures and Panelologist's Pride, my two major "self-pubbers," as we old-timers once called them. I was unable to reproduce the pages in questions.

Thus, exhaustive verbal descriptions of the page were required of the writer--in these cases, that scribe being myself! I wore out many a hectograph stencil with these necessarily lengthy recitations of the page elements.

Via the marvelous tool that is "Photo Shop," I have been able to prove that bygone adage, "a picture is worth a thousand words."

In the diagrammed "autopsy" of Tuska's handiwork below, I believe I have sufficed in locating, identifying and cataloging the stunning and daring carnival of visual events contained on that single page...



I doubt that even the great William Eisner, in his prime, could have done so many things with a humble panelological page. The daring of youth! The innovation of those who ignore the old tropes of "It can't be done!" and "Impossible!"

Young Tuska split the comic magazine page in two with a bolt of creative lightning!

Now, I have studied a bit of "art theory," and I understand the concepts of "positive space" and "negative space." Notice how stunningly these conceits are flaunted here.

The "lightning bolt" of the panel gutters is echoed in the similarly electric charge of what I call "Occupation Points"--events of vital interest and significance to the reader. Note the downward sweep from Cosmic Carson's face to the burst, in the second panel, in which Carson's first meets the cragged face of villain "The Skull!"

Tuska's "Lightning Line" of decisive action guides our eyes through what, in lesser hands, might merely be an inept misuse of the comic magazine page. We, the audience, know exactly WHERE to look--and WHY to look there.

Parallel to this creative "bolt" is an arrow-like slant, which highlights the Powerful Flow of the Narrative Event--in this case, Cosmic Carson's bursting of his bonds, and his punch to The Skull.

I believe that my indicators of Positive and Negative Space are self-explanatory.

Is this page not unlike a familiar religious icon-- the yin yang symbol?

From PANELOLOGICAL PANTHEON

Compare the two images--and see for yourself! I wish not to "beat the pony" by over-explaining or over-analyzing. Too much of that has been done by my fellow panelological professors.

In coming posts, I shall exhibit more panelological wonders from my newly acquired Science Comics issues. Rest assured--thrills beyond comprehension await!

And now, for those of you so interested, I shall recount some recent events. 'Tis quaint--I never intended for this "blog" to be so much about my daily doings! It just happened, like the man said.

I'm pleased, friends, that you find my humble liveaday events of such interest. I trust that I shalln't overstay my welcome with these domestic recountings.

Work on Dorrie's Diner continues unabated in the new year. Carpenters invaded our home in the last week of December. Much hammering, buzzing, thudding and gruff hooliganism surrounded me in the last week of my holiday.

Such rough types are truly "the salt of this earth." Without them, would we have houses? Would we enjoy the conveniences of modern life? No sir! We would live out of doors, and still forage for food and water. Perhaps we might still brandish clubs.

'Tis supreme irony, then, that those would erect our domiciles so resemble the cavemen of ancient history!

Despite their rough language, these "barkers" had little bite. I did take exception to one builder's careless appraisal of my panelological acquisitions. As I paused to fetch a fresh glass of Vernor's ginger ale, said brute man-handled a early issue of Target Comics.

Had I not executed top speed to stop his actions, this ruffian would have FOLDED BACK THE COVERS and GOTTEN DIRT AND GREASE all over the interior pages!

"We'll have none of that, sir!" I cried. In the nick of time, I snatched the precious Target from his rugged hands and returned it to its protective envelope.

"What's the problem, dude? It's just a [blankety-blank] funny book!" the brute cried, in complaint.

"And I suppose," I uttered in reply, "those are just [blankety-blank] boards and nails you're using!"

The miscreant shrugged. "[Expletive], yeah, they're [expletive] boards an' [expletive]! So whut?"

Friends, I am not prone to physical violence, but I nearly struck this Gorgon in overalls! Instead, I gathered my new acquisitions and retreated to my den.

Later, one of the thugs committed an act of emesis on our front porch! Said fellow had complained of being "hung over like a [expletive] pig" all day. 'Twas a sad coda to a day of genuine progress for Dorrie's project.

But, in a true "silver lining" of a moment, Dorrie bade "Raydon" to mop up the outpour. How that gay blade grumbled in protest! Yet, I must admit, he did a superb job of elimating stain, spillage and odor. Should his design "racket" hit a reef, "Raydon" has a promising career ahead as a custodian!

In "otros palabros" (that is Spanish for 'other news'), young Raphael visited our household the day after Christmas. Upon his arrival, I proudly presented him with my hand-picked gift.

Dorrie brought the lad a hot mug of Velvet Fog, which he thoroughly enjoyed as he nervously unwrapped his gift parcel. "Revistas!" he cried with surprise. Raphael sniffed the bronzed vintage newsprint. He smiled. "¡Estos son revistas muy viejos, Señor Mason!"

Raphael apologized with a smile. "By this I mean... these are very aged! They must be quite rare!"

"They are yours to enjoy, Raphael," I said with warmth. "It would appear you are already a student of--did you call them 'revisas?'"

"Revistas, Señor Mason! And, si, I am most fond of these! They are most popular in my home town!"

I explained that this gift was twofold: both as an expression of my warmth and friendship for young Vazquez, and as an educational aid. "By reading these stories, you shall develop more of an ear for American speech. I sincerely feel these, er, revistas will enable you to better take your rightful place in American society!"

Tears formed in Raphael's eyes. Then he reached across the coffee table and hugged me. "You are truly my friend," he said.

Raphael stayed for dinner. Many times he asked Dorrie if such foodstuffs were to be served at her imminent bistro. Her positive answers further delighted him. "I will bring all my friends and relatives to dine here!"

Thus, there is new hope in the horizon for this youth. I trust it shall be a positive experience--one that enables him to find his American destiny!

My return to work on Monday was dreary. The sky opened up and rain poured mercilessly upon my fellow commuters. I welcomed the escape from the construction brutes and from "Raydon." I still had much back-work to collate, approve and file.

My team members looked haggard and gaunt. Unlike my quiet, contemplative New Year's Eve, theirs were ribald, distaff and, from their piquant descriptions, violently emetic as well.

Ah, the follies of youth! When I hear such tales of debauchery, I take comfort in my advancing years, and in the calm of my life. 2010 promises to be another year of panelological pleasures and life contentment for myself.

May it be thus for you, my internet friends!

I shall return soon with more gilded offerings from the pages of Science Comics!