The Trans-Bots are more than meets the eye. Because they’re Transformers. Look, there’s Megatron right there.
A Transformer by any other name…
I have no idea what the hell the deal was with these things. Were they knockoffs of the Transformers line? Since this was still the early days of the Transformers (the ad is from a comic cover-dated February 1985), were these just an early marketing effort for toys that were originally repurposed Japanese molds? No clue, but that’s clearly Megatron there on the bottom, oddly shaped bow-legs at the ready, and surely the “Transforming Weapon” of the copy. Also,love the “Deception Plane” and the descriptions that clearly delineate Soundwave and Reflector, the tripartite camera Decepticon that was only available through mail order.
I see that Heroes World was the purveyor that was hawking these. I think they were reasonably reputable, which seems to negate any “the mob stole a truck-load of loose Transformers and had to fence them fast” explanation.
Not to quibble with a company’s fine name and product, but were Apaches really known for their “tree forts”?
Like most boys, I played my share of Cowboys and Indians as a kid. I also participated in building many a fort, whether it was from couch cushions in the living room or a fallen tree somewhere in the woods. I also had a tree house, one that my father and I hammered away on one summer as my mother stewed and fretted down below. But never in all my born days did I ever contemplate merging all those things into one odd amalgam. “Apache Tree Forts.” All righty then.
Add “Picnic Douchebaggery” to Doctor Doom’s laundry list of crimes against humanity – Marvel Age #30
There was absolutely NOTHING going on in the Marvel Universe when this issue of Marvel Age came out. Hard to hype things when one of the big releases for the month is The Return of the Living Monolith. (No offense intended to the Living Monolith or the creative team behind said return.) Fortunately, though, the cover ranks as one of the better “summer fun” entries that the mag ever produced, once again crafted by the omnipresent John Byrne. There’s a lot going on in this one. A list, if you will:
- She-Hulk has eschewed her normal sun hat, though it appears she may have given it to the Wasp before Janet shrunk down.
- Conan is eating as Conan would/should eat, much to Storm’s disgust. OH LIKE WOLVERINE IS GODDAMN MISS MANNERS.
- Thor is chomping down on a hero sandwich like Michael Phelps in a Subway commercial. Asgardians love to eat. More mead!
- Captain America has removed his gloves before dining, like any gentleman should.
- The Black Knight is using his sword to, as Peyton Manning would say, “Cut that meat! Cut that meat!”
- Spider-Man is eating upside down. I’m pretty sure I once saw a G.I. Joe PSA or a One to Grow On that said you shouldn’t eat lying down. Perhaps that applies here as well. (This also begs the question: Could Spider-Man, with all his strength, die choking like Mama Cass, or would he be able to self-Heimlich?)
- Hulk and Colossus are engaging in that time-worn test of masculine mettle, the picnic table arm-wrestling challenge. I’d like to know what kind of wood the table’s made of to withstand that torque.
- Mr. Fantastic lives every man’s dream: He can grab a beer while watching football without getting off his lazy ass.
- Doom. Jackass. PAGING PYM. PAGING PYM.
- And more.
Summer is almost over. Keep the above image in mind during your Labor Day festivities, and then savor it all through the year.
Hey, the [developmentally disabled] dude on L.A. Law and the villain in Darkman was also “Dr. Giggles.” VERSATILITY, BABY.
A lot of movie ads in comics are for touchstone films that, like the comics themselves, define an era. Then there are times when you get a one-sheet for an ancient Nicole Kidman movie. Or this. The Gielgudian chops of Larry Drake could truly stretch to unmeasurable lengths.
Dr. Giggles actually had a comic book adaptation from Dark Horse (We produced it, what the hell…). I solemnly vow, on a stack of Ditko/Lee Amazing Spider-Man comics, to one day review it here. “A new prescription for terror” indeed.
Would you rather have your life depend on a Tootsie Roll swim toy or a raft provided by GRIT? Maybe just learn to swim instead. Or stay away from water altogether.
Kool-Aid Man in bermuda shorts is far more disturbing than his default nudity – The Adventures of Kool-Aid Man #6
Kool-Aid is a God-awful product. I hate it. I hated it as a kid, and I’m sure, if it were ever for some unfathomable reason served to me now, in my downward slide into senescence, I’d hate it in adulthood. It’s like something that aliens would make if they were trying to create fruit juice based on second-hand accounts and vague rumor. It’s watery. It tastes fake, with flavors only distant cousins of what they’re supposed to be. LOATHSOME.
There were packets of it in my house’s cupboards all throughout my childhood. Maybe they were issued to my parents when I came screaming into the world. “Here’s the birth certificate and strawberry-banana flavor.” I’m sure my poor mother brewed me up a pitcher at some point or another, but my “What is this goat piss?” look when it passed my lips must have told her to never try to poison me with it again.
Nowadays the only way I ever come close to it is when I see a gross, grubby little brat with red stains around the side of his mouth, like he got into mommy’s makeup and tried and failed to do himself up like the Joker. Kool-Aid is proof that children are sugar addicts like some people are meth addicts. A meth addict doesn’t care where they get their fix, whether it’s Walter White’s highly potent “drugs as chemical art” stuff or some crap laced with Drano. They just want their fix. And kids just want sugar, whether its Godiva chocolate or the artificial whatevers in those little packets.
In summation: Kool-Aid is repugnant in any number of ways. If you like it, may you live long and prosper, but I question the judgment/wisdom/sanity of your taste buds.
And then there’s Kool-Aid Man, the venerable decades-old pitch(er)man of the product. He busts through fences, walls, and ceilings to bring kids their precious fruit-ish beverage. He seems like an affable enough fellow, with a charming rotundity and a welcoming baritone. He’s been one of the better memes on Family Guy. He had a video game. And by God, he had his own comic book — published by the Archie Comics Group, in saccharine synergy — which was provided gratis to unsuspecting children to suck them into the Kool-Aid universe, from whence they would never escape.
I’m tempted at this point to equate Kool-Aid Man with Joe Camel. A bit of a stretch, as sugar isn’t nicotine. But Joe Camel, to my knowledge, never delved into comics.
Kool-Aid Man’s title functioned as a long-form advertisement for Kool-Aid and its assorted flavors. Surprise. And he had pants in it. Repeat: Kool-Aid Man had pants. A cursory examination of Kool-Aid Man images over the years indicates that he’s covered his lower body on a number of occasions (like Arnim Zola, his upper must go uncovered or else he’s in a burqa), so this isn’t unique to the comic. But it has to be noted that, like things once seen that can never be unseen, once you put pants on something, its pantsless state, no matter how accustomed, then carries the taint of nudity. You suddenly realize that even giant pitcher mascots have things to be modest about, and that they have need of a fig leaf. Ever seen a diaper on a chimp? Isn’t that off-putting? This is a lot like that. It takes your mind places you don’t want it to go.
Conclusion: Most of the time when you see Kool-Aid Man, he’s starkers. And now that’s obvious. Inescapable. Know that going forward. Thank you, shorts.
Now, for our exemplar of the day.
You can see the Archie influences on the cover, provided by one of that character’s signature artists, Dan DeCarlo. Things are a tad more understated on the inside (and there’s no Punisher traipsing through to liven things up), but Kool-Aid Man’s environs still have a Riverdale feel. Mike Pellowski plugged the script into this (A step up or down from the New Archies? YOU DECIDE.), while James DeCarlo contributed inks. The story centers around Kool-Aid Man’s creation of a new intoxicating flavor, one that, as we shall see, is eventually named Purplesaurus Rex (combining kids’ love of both sugar and dinosaurs into an irresistible marketing machine). It sounds utterly carcinogenic, but it was apparently so good its discontinuation could trigger lengthy homilies at a distant remove.
And. Now. That. Story.
It starts with Kool-Aid Man in his lab with his most devoted disciples. He’s added a lab coat to his attire, though that can’t really paper over his dubious scientific qualifications. Like any good drug dealer, he’s eager to give a sample of his new product to those most susceptible to its charms:
The formula is immediately pilfered by Kool-Aid Man’s arch-nemesis, Scorch, the embodiment of the summertime heat which Kool-Aid is supposed to blunt. He leads the gang on a chase through Kool-Aid Man’s Wacky Warehouse, which looks to have roughly the same amount of subdivided square footage as the Mall of America, and includes a food court:
The “DANGER DO NOT ENTER” door leads to a time machine. Yes, a time machine, but one that Kool-Aid Man can’t be bothered to secure. Not a lock. Not even a twist tie. Everyone is sucked into the past, and somehow Kool-Aid Man is barfed out with his shorts replaced by khakis and a pith helmet:
They’re back in dinosaur times, and, all worries about mucking up the time continuum blithely cast aside, they soon come across a Purplesaurus:
They help him out of his predicament, and he in turn helps them locate and subdue Scorch (He can speak English. Why? Just because!). And they all return to the present so Kool-Aid Man can show what a douche he is and the inevitable naming of the grapey lemonadish drink can happen:
Huzzah.
After this there are some gratuitous games — a maze, connect the dots — to help further drive the YOU MUST DRINK PURPLESAURUS REX into the minds of children. And then there’s also a page of horrid Kool-Aid merchandise if throwing cash into a fireplace is too direct a means of income disposal:
I think it’s safe to say that if you’ve EVER in your life worn a Kool-Aid fanny pack, your chances of passing through existence a virgin increase tenfold. AT LEAST.
There you are. A little direct sequential marketing from the fine folks at Kool-Aid and Archie. It is what it is. I’ve had enough, and I’ve said enough. And don’t blame me if you have a sudden craving for a grapey lemonadish beverage.
Duke at some point must have turned to Gung-Ho and asked “Just what the hell is your deal, anyway?”
Gung-Ho. The man, the myth, the legend. Did he get his G.I. Joe uniform on the day they accidentally handed out Village People costumes? Is Duke’s sideways glance because he’s a little put off by his bare-chested compadre using the word “lick”? “Are you Amish? Do you not believe in buttons? GET SOME. THAT’S AN ORDER.” A Real American Hero indeed.
The tough-as-nails original G.I. Joes surely wondered what happened to their squad.
I remember these old F.H.E. videocassettes. Not to quibble with Scarlett, but I had a few of the Transformers editions, and, adjusted to 2012 dollars, they cost roughly 500 bucks each ($39.95 for a couple hours of content — still less of a jip than the ticket I bought to Dark of the Moon). Oblivious as most kids are to finances, I could never figure out why my parents weren’t eager to shell out cash for more and more tapes of shows that were on TV every afternoon after school. But Mom and Dad, how am I supposed to study with Talmudic intensity the one where the Decepticons build the space bridge to Cybertron?
That Rocket Raccoon is going to be part of the Marvel Movie Universe’s next wave of films, as a front and center player in 2014’s Guardians of the Galaxy, represents a new level of out-thereness in that gold-standard franchise. Yes, the follow-up to this summer’s spectacular Avengers is going to have a walking, talking weapons-master raccoon that likes to blow things up. I once thought Asgard would be hard to pull off, but that was done quite well. This, however, is a whole new hornet’s nest.
Then again, he did have his own little mini-series back in the 1980s, illustrated by none other than the still wet behind the ears Mike Mignola. So the ‘coon can carry a story. But will this be a bridge too far cinematically? We shall see.
Godspeed, Marvel.
If any model is worth your painstaking effort, it would probably be one from 2001: A Space Odyssey
Most people would probably prefer to put together a Discovery model, or even a model of one of the shuttle pods, but the Pan-Am Clipper would surely be worth your hard-won dollar. Couldn’t be worse than a f–king Gobots model, right? Revel in the irony of Pan-American not lasting until 2001! Wonder where our giant spinning space stations are! Visualize the zero gravity toilet onboard and its lengthy instructions! Play Strauss waltzes while you put it together!
Are Lex Luthor, Joker, Benedict Arnold, da Vinci and Baron Münchhausen the greatest team-up ever? NO. – World’s Finest Comics #177
Before anything else is written, it has to be noted that there really is some spectacular star wattage on that Ross Andru/Mike Esposito cover. It’s not often that you get Batman, Superman and their respective arch-foes alone together in one frame like that. Not rare, but not frequent, and this one has a nice clean composition to it. The Joker’s particularly resplendent, looking crisp, clean, and like some archetype of how the Clown Prince of Crime should appear.
But. BUT.
Lex Luthor and the Joker have to be THE WORST GODDAMN SHOTS EVER. I mean, we’re talking Harry Dunne in Dumb and Dumber bad. We’re talking Lieutenant Frank Drebin in Police Squad! bad. Even taking into account lateral movement, that’s a hell of a marksmanship display. STOP AND AIM, YOU MORONS. (Also, that’s not the best pose I’ve ever seen Superman in. Is he leaning forward at a 45 degree angle? Could he look any more ridiculous? And that’s even putting aside the dialogue, as both of the World’s Finest duo sound like they’ve been taking groovy cues from the Super-Sons.)
Before we can get to that point in the story (Script: Jim Shooter, Pencils: Curt Swan, Inks: Esposito), there’s a whole pile of preliminaries to go through. You see, recidivist Luthor is in the hoosegow for the 179th time (a ballpark figure), and he has to figure out a way to bust on out of there. This is complicated by the fact that the guards refuse to provide him with anything that his criminal genius can cobble into a means of escape. That is, until an obliging guard gives him a dart set for a bit of recreation. Your tax dollars at work, folks. Luthor immediately goes full MacGyver (though, being a criminal, he naturally cheats a bit):
Who answers the call? None other than Batman WAIT THAT’S NOT BATMAN IT’S THE JOKER:
No, the Joker hasn’t been working out. It’s a padded suit. He says so later. In case you were wondering. So he’s basically like everyone who’s played Batman onscreen the past twenty-plus years.
After they’re briefly waylaid by Batman and Superman (who give up the chase when Robin takes a bullet(!)), they head to Luthor’s lair, a well-appointed hideout that’s a worthy counterpoint to Superman’s Fortress (and perhaps it’s the one that the Legion stumbled into centuries later). Though he lacks bottle cities and giant yellow keys, Luthor does have a time machine that’s operated by what looks to be a hybrid of the Dial H for Hero rotary phone thingamajig and the wheel on The Price is Right (no Sockamagees or fainting house fraus, thankfully). They use it to summon historical figures to help in their nefarious schemes — Luthor chooses Benedict Arnold, whose name is synonymous with treachery, while the Joker makes an unholy mess of things:
Yes, the Joker aims for the historical basis of Pagliacci (?!) and winds up with Baron Münchhausen, the man who gave his name (minus an “h”) to a variety of disturbing lie-based syndromes. Nice job, Clown Prince. I’m sure he’ll be a great help. The Joker is like that guy who finds a magic lamp and manages to piss away his three wishes in record time and ends up with a new suit and a box of cereal or something.
Oh, and to round out the trio that they’re able to bring through, they get Leonardo da Vinci and co-opt him into their little army. A JUGGERNAUT IS BORN, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.
They go on a crime spree, steeling the Mona Lisa and some loot using Münchhausen’s adept lies and some of da Vinci’s inventions:
Once again they get away from Batman and Superman, but all is not well in this five-man syndicate. Luthor and the Joker — surprise! — don’t get along. Luthor hates Joker’s loose-cannoniness, Joker thinks Luthor’s bullying him, yadayadayada. Oil and water. They’re about to come to Moe and Shemp style blows, that is until Arnold proposes that they settle things like civilized men: with a duel. And — surprise again! — Arnold is less than trustworthy, planning to take over when Luthor and Joker kill each other:
They both apparently die. But — last surprise! — they’re not really dead, and their return to life kicks off a chain of crosses and double-crosses that requires profound spacial reasoning to parse:
NOW EVERYONE’S CONFUSED.
Da Vinci and the good Baron (liars are okay sometimes, it seems) help Batman and Superman round up their quarry, and all the historical figures head back to the past. And Luthor goes to prison for the 180th time.
This is one of the more frenetic comics that you’ll ever come across. If it’s not one thing, it’s another, you know? Fun but nuts. Kudos to Shooter for digging deep to throw Münchhausen in there. Arnold and da Vinci are A-list names, but the Baron is one of those lesser figures of history, a man whose story is known only vaguely to most, and if people have heard the name, it’s on an episode of E.R. or House about a patient lying about illnesses. Comics can be educational. They can teach you things about quicksand and offer you biographical bullet-points. Jim Shooter: America’s Tutor.
As for the art, I’m not nuts about the Swan/Esposito combination’s aesthetic, though the action flows well. Swan is the man with the master plan when it comes to Superman, but things here feel unSwanish. No one’s fault, and it’s still good. Feels a bit off, that’s all. (Incidentally, if Swan and Murphy Anderson had the Brangelina-like tag of Swanderson, does that make Swan and Esposito Swansposito? If so, it sounds like a hideous Dr. Moreau amalgam.)
I’m not sure that this story has ever found its way into a collection or trade of any sort. It’s a shame that a lot of the 1960s DC comics get the short shrift when it comes to apportioning reprints. I don’t care personally because I never buy them, but I know a lot of other people get all their old-timey material in that format. Oh well. Folks will just have to get their dollop of goofy education some other way.
The Christmas connection in this particular subscription offer is more overt than the subtle Spider-Man stocking, but it might be overkill. I’m reminded of an old Jack Handey “Deep Thought”: If you’re a circus clown, and you have a dog that you use in your act, I don’t think it’s a good idea to also dress the dog up like a clown, because people see that and they think, “Forgive me, but that’s just too much.”
Tony Stark forging a metal Santa Claus coat to go with his classic Iron Man armor is a bit much. And, might I add, WHERE’S THE SHINY CHROME BEARD? At least go all the way with it.
Dr. Strange and Clea, both hummer-ready, would like you to consider reading a new Dr. Strange story
The first thing you think of when you see the above image? That Clea is servicing the good Doctor. She isn’t, of course(?), but this is nevertheless another in a proud lineage of promos that have a woman posed in stark subservience to her virile man, evoking all manner of oral fixations. Stretching from the classic Brothers Hildebrandt Star Wars poster to National Lampoon’s Vacation and everything beyond and in between, it’s a venerable trope. There’s just something about having a woman’s head at crotch level that draws eyeballs, so much so that it worms its way into every Boris Vallejo ripoff under the sun. (Granted, it would work better here if Stephen showed some chest and Clea clung to one of his legs. Still…)
Sex sells, baby, and Dr. Strange books have always been the hardest of hard sells. It was a long, drawn-out fall after the Ditko/Colan days, and even in the latter there was an embarrassing costume change or two mixed in. So we can forgive these promotional lengths, I guess.
Strange looks rather pleased. “By the Hoary Hosts of Hoggoth, that was fantastic!” Good for him.
John Byrne’s bikini-clad She-Hulk doesn’t give a rat’s ass about “Atlantis Attacks,” so why should you? – Marvel Age #76
Here we are with another summer-themed issue of Marvel Age, this one also featuring the inveterate exhibitionist She-Hulk in a provocative beach pose. She’s all by her lonesome this time, not lugging drinks for fellow members of Marvel’s distaff branch. (She’s still wearing her giant Elaine Benes sun hat, though.) I have a few things to say about this one. Here they are:
- My thanks to John Byrne for going the less-is-more route with his signature, hiding it in the sand instead of giving it an enormous box that covers up half the cover image — and he also refrains from needless commentary, which is a nice bonus.
- What’s with the shovel and the bucket? Is She-Hulk a childish imbecile? Did she take a kid to the beach, part of a Big Brothers Really Big Sisters program?
- “Dark Olive.” NYUKNYUKNYUK.
- THAT’S A VALUABLE CLASSIC COMIC BOOK YOU’RE HOLDING THERE, DOLL, NOT A SECOND-HAND DANIELLE STEEL NOVEL. TREAT IT WITH CARE.
- She-Hulk’s giving poor Forbush Man the patented Atlas sand-kick treatment.
- Finally, and most importantly, I’m not sure of the dismissive bent taken with that summer’s big crossover event, “Atlantis Attacks.” I realize that this is just a joke, and Byrne wasn’t going renegade and badmouthing the company’s product, as this cover was certainly okayed by any number of people. But when you start mocking your own stuff and tell potential readers that yeah, you really don’t need to bother reading the story since it was done better (and briefer — and cheaper) decades ago, then please, don’t be surprised if the audience pre-emptively tunes out. I’m reminded of pro wrestling and the late 1990s woes of the once potent WCW. The NWO, a stable of bad-guy wrestlers, propelled that company to new heights with their irreverent, anti-establishment antics. They were enormously popular, but “outside” of the company and always trying to tear down the wrestlers, announcers, caterers, what have you, that were associated with WCW. It was great, it was entertaining, but eventually it devalued the broader brand. And once the interest in the NWO faded, what was left was a WCW that had been relentlessly bad-mouthed by the hip, cool wrestlers. There were any number of reasons why WCW collapsed, but this was one of them. She-Hulk’s too-cool attitude reminds me a lot of this.
Anyway. This installment of Age is not only noteworthy for the (undermined at the get-go) pimping of “Atlantis Attacks.” It also has a eulogy for the recently departed New Universe, penned by Mark Gruenwald:
Gruenwald was taken away before his time. All respect to his well-written, passionate opinion, but I don’t think the same can be said about the New Universe. If it doesn’t engage, it doesn’t engage. No harm, no foul, but move on.
And, of course, “Atlantis Attacks.” Here’s the article that lays out the story’s annuals in excruciating detail. A gold star to anyone who wades through all four pages:
I’ve seen overwrought Wikipedia entries with less verbosity. I think the Omnibus collection goes faster.
More Marvel Fun in the Sun to come. Hopefully with less attitude from the cover babes.
Your choice of clunky 1940s boy paraphernalia, including THE LARGEST CAMERA IN THE WORLD
Who wouldn’t want to get a rod to fish with their pals, a mitt to play ball, a camera to capture all the precious memories, or an axe to brain their tormentors? And all you have to do is fall into a GRIT-worthy magazine distribution racket (Collier’s), one with a vaguely-defined connection to the war effort. BUT YOU COULD GET AN AXE.
(Worthless Note: I had never seen “Fellers” in an advertisement ever, until I saw this ad and a creepy kid-infused Ju-Jitsu promo, and they were back to back. Fellers come in bunches, it seems.)
Joe Kubert, 1926-2012
Since the news of Joe Kubert’s passing broke yesterday, there have been any number of well-written eulogies, many of which have been written by those who knew the man himself. I can’t lay claim to any personal interactions with Mr. Kubert. I can’t even claim that I’ve been a life-long devotee of his work, since I came to appreciate it as an adult, which is late in the game for a comic book aficionado. Others, like the recently departed Gene Colan, have been a part of my artistic luggage for much longer.
Kubert was great, though. Let’s make that clear. He was a talent who’s potency influenced generations of artists, both through his example and his instruction. His legacy will live on, not only through his children, but through that wonderful art of his. Immortal through either. Whether he was crafting something like the cover you see above (which I marvelled at once before), or slumming in ads that paired Tarzan with dinosaurs and candy, he always brought his A-game, that rough around the edges, athletic style that never half-assed it. That’s what I’ll remember him for most: his life-long consistency and quality. His work had POWER.
Joe Kubert, you will be missed. That’s all I can add.
Jared
blog into mystery 
