Prehistoric Model Kit Russian Roulette
“Wow! Which one am I going to get? The triceratops? The mammoth? The caveman about to throw a huge stone on top of the bear that’s going to devour his girl?” <sounds of box opening> “Oh. The bird. The bird standing on one leg. [Insert expletive of choice].”
Jeremy spoke in class today…
Schoolroom. Gun. Like peanut butter and jelly. MERRY CHRISTMAS.
WARNING: This comic will put hair on your chest. And give you a scrotum, if you’re scrotumless. – The Dirty Dozen
Sometimes in December, as Christmas cheer threatens to devour you, you have to poke your head up above the surface of the Yuletide pool that you’re wallowing in and get your bearings. The sugary year-ending glurge, with its toys, good will towards men, and sappy jewelry ads (“Give the one you love something she’ll always remember, and that your wallet will never forget…”) needs to be broken, especially if you’re of that half of the Earth’s population with more testosterone than estrogen. GET YOUR GONADS BACK, MEN.
Well, have we got an adaptation for you. Yes, there was a Dirty Dozen comic, and it’s every bit as machine-gunningly, grenade-tossingly, Nazi-blow-uppingly magnificent as the source material. MACHISMO TRIUMPHANT.
The Dirty Dozen was of that vanished breed of unabashedly male films, movies that, if they were people, would spend their leisure hours smoking, drinking whiskey, whoring and playing cards. “They don’t make ’em like that anymore” applies (somewhat sadly) to this genus of entertainment. Nowadays if they were making a Dirty Dozenish flick, it’d assuredly have at least one female character — preferably ethnic — with overbearing sass and enough one-liners to verbally castrate the men around her.
I love women, and I don’t want to sound like a pig. But sometimes, like Yoko, they can ruin something scrumptiously y-chromosomed, something great. And The Dirty Dozen was something great. Men used to have places in houses (climb up on my lap and let grandpa tell you a story…) called “dens,” places that smelled of leather and pipe smoke, that had the feel of tweed, and these were places where higher octaves, whether they be female or child, were not allowed. Now dens have morphed into man caves, and I’m not sure that they’re quite as exclusive. I get the feeling that most man caves are frequently appropriated by better halves and gaggles of lady-friends. “Let’s watch Bridesmaids on the big screen!”
The Dirty Dozen is a den. An incorruptible one. IMPENETRABLE.
Lee (voice deeper than God’s) Marvin. Charles (this ain’t over…) Bronson. Jim (run your ass over) Brown. Telly (Players Club International) Savalas. Ernest (I can’t believe he’s still alive, and I’m ever so happy that he is) Borgnine. And more. ‘Nuff said.
The comic is a faithful adaptation of the story, with its riotous assemblage of military convicts turned elite strike force. All the manly notes are gloriously struck. Here’s Telly Savalas as Maggot going crazy as the Dozen storm the Nazi castle (otherwise known as THE WORST GODDAMN POSSIBLE TIME TO LOSE YOUR SHIT):
And here’s Jim Brown, using his all-time great NFL skills to zig and zag and drop grenades on some Nazi generals and party-goers:
One of the best things about this book is the solid work done by artist Jack Sparling on the likenesses. There aren’t many chances for us to see faces like Savalas’s and Marvin’s and Bronson’s rendered in comic form. And Borgnine’s:
RIGHT DOWN TO THE GAP IN HIS TEETH, PEOPLE.
This comic breaks no ground. It does not push the art form to unexpected heights. But, thanks to its unabashed guyness, it far outshines its adaptation kinsmen, the Lawrences and Alexanders of the world. It can recenter you on your guy axis (no pun intended). It can wash away some of the Christmas saccharine.
Mission accomplished.
A modern fructose-eating fam-i-lyyyyy…
It’s a testament to the Flintstones Cocoa Pebbles and Fruity Pebbles marketing campaign that I can still, years after it was on the airwaves, remember the commercial where the cereal-stealing Barney Rubble rapped:
It almost makes what Fruity Pebbles did to milk — turning it a sickening, dusky purple — forgivable. Almost. YABBA DABBA DO NOT EAT THIS CRAP.
Superman: The Movie: The Merchandise: The Ads: Ad Infinitum
Surely this is one of the greatest Christmas-season releases of all time. 190 proof movie magic.
Superman: The Movie remains a gold standard (I’d argue for a THE here, but I’ll respect the feelings of others) for celluloid comic book properties, one that’s lustre augments with every passing year. There are oh so many elements at play. It may have one of the most dynamic and varied John Williams scores in that composer’s long career –that’s saying something. Marlon Brando was Jor-El. Repeat, MARLON BRANDO WAS JOR-EL. Though Gene Hackman was a follicled Lex Luthor, one that surrounded himself with buxom and bumbling stumblebums, he brought a smart, casual menace to the role. Hearing his voice saying “You’re a strong voice for good, Superman. But then, nobody’s perfect. Almost nobody…” still raises neck hairs. There was Glenn Ford in only two scenes leaving no doubt as the where Clark Kent got his Truth, Justice and the American Way. A Margot Kidder that was still pretty, that hadn’t yet been done in by cigarettes and mental illness. A fast-talking, cigar-chomping Perry White.
And no person has ever inhabited a character from the funny pages quite like Christopher Reeve. Whatever incarnation of the Man of Steel was your favorite, whether it was Swan’s, Boring’s, Shuster’s, whoever’s, you saw it in his performance. He was kind, handsome and determined, so much so that even that atrocious “Can You Read My Mind” accompanied flying scene is forgiven. (Well, maybe not. But you’re inclined to.)
I know some people call the film, with its wires and rear projection, dated. I understand that, but it came out in the year I was born (1978), so I’ll brook no criticisms about dated. Or old-looking. Or goofy. It’s like those things are being said about me. SO PISS OFF.
It was no surprise that DC went whole hog in the inter-company advertising blitz (hell, even the competition couldn’t resist hopping on the bandwagon), starting with that omnipresent “WIN A CHANCE TO BE IN THE NEW SUPERMAN MOVIE!” sweepstakes. Here we have a small sampling of the immediate ramp-up out of the other day’s VERY BATMAN CHRISTMAS in Batman #309. You have the understated movie poster above from the inside front cover, and then this two-page centerfold hawking some treasury-sized goodies:
Souvenir movie books often suck. They’re the rock concert programs of the film world, a “What frenzy possessed me to buy this flimsy P.O.S.?” purchase. I’ve flipped through the Superman: The Movie “Authorized Edition.” It doesn’t suck.
And then, on the very next page, DC went into its “while we have you here, can we interest you in some…” spiel:
Kryptonite, for the Superman Revenge Squad member in your life! Batman and Wonder Woman belts for boys and girls! And I have a feeling that the calendar would be so awesome it’d make you to use it every year for the rest of your life, forcing you to recalculate and adjust your schedule like you were accommodating the French Revolutionary Calendar or something. August. Thermidor. SUPERMANIDOR.
Sometimes shilling is just shilling. Then there are times when it’s BRING IT ON. This is a BRING IT ON property if there ever was one. You will believe a company can shill…
This has nothing to do with The Mothman Prophecies. So it has that going for it. – Steve Rude’s The Moth
It’s impossible to discuss a comic featuring the work of Steve Rude and avoid using a variant of “Steve Rude of Nexus fame.” It’s a requirement. And whadaya know, it’s now out of the way. Moving on.
I was thinking of a slightly off-beat title to recommend for folks this holiday season, a last-minute sort of thing, one that could be either be bought for someone else or one that you could put on your IF YOU’RE LOOKING FOR SOMETHING FOR ME WHY NOT GET THIS list. Hence The Moth.
I’ll keep this brief. The Moth is Jack Mahoney, an aerialist who’s one half of a set of orphaned conjoined twins, a man of great strength, the guardian of his dim-witted dwarf brother and the inheritor of a circus. He somewhat reluctantly battles crime in his winged costume — with its Spider-Manish eyes and Punisherish chest emblem — and since he’s far from invulnerable, he spends a good amount of time getting his ass kicked. Think Bruce Wayne in that first abortive Year One foray.
I was a big fan of the unforgivably short-lived Carnivale (yeah, HBO, we really needed forty-eight seasons of those god-awful Sex in the City crones instead), and the Moth’s milieu, with its strongmen and bearded ladies and a whiff of the supernatural, is equally stimulating. Rude’s art has always been wonderfully evocative of “good old days” even when the stories are set in the present, and that’s the case here. It’s frank and robust. If you’re not nuts about Gary Martin’s sometimes too-cute scripting, the art (which Martin inked) more than makes up for it.
The first special and the subsequent four-issue miniseries were collected in a trade a while ago, and you can still find it bopping around out there. I checked the Amazon page and they have it in stock. The bad news? There were two copies left. GET YOUR ORDERS IN NOW, AMERICA.
So ends my gift recommendation, for which I receive no commission whatsoever.
Mighty Marvel Mad Libs T-Shirts
I realize the t-shirts on the right aren’t in the Mad Lib format, but the temptation to insert swears is just as compelling. Though I’d probably end up pulling a Stewie Griffin with them.
And don’t you dare try to put words into the Silver Surfer’s and Conan’s mouths. (The Conan tee looks bitching enough for dates and job interviews. It’s the battle-axe, people. The battle-axe.)
BEEP BEEP BEEP This is a special news bulletin BEEP BEEP BEEP Something called “Star Wars” is coming BEEP BEEP BEEP
I apologize for the lackluster scan quality, which renders this page barely readable. But barely readable is still readable, so here it is. Unsheath your spectacles.
Just thought this was interesting, assuredly one of the last times George Lucas was referred to solely as the director of American Graffiti and THX-1138. The first line of his obituary was about to change in a BIG way. This was also probably one of the last times that Peter Cushing’s presence (great as he was) and fearsome receding hairline would be used as a primary selling point.
No need to even mention that Harrison guy who was in The Conversation.
A suicidal young woman and a mindless brute drowning in icy water. IT’S A VERY BATMAN CHRISTMAS. – Batman #309
When you think “holiday cheer,” visions of the grim Caped Crusader probably aren’t the first to dance in your head. Not to say that Batman can’t have a place around the Christmas tree, but a man driven to nocturnal vengeance, one prone to crouching on rooftops next to stone gargoyles, isn’t exactly Hallmark material. Then again, maybe the cold weather is ideally suited for him. Now that I think of it, Batman Returns was a “Christmas” movie. Hmm.
Whether Batman belongs under the mistletoe may be up for debate, but here we have a genuine Batman Christmas tale, one surely worthy of a microscopic parsing. No matter what. It’s wreathed by ivy, for God’s sake. It’s a veritable Yule log of material.
Len Wein, John Calnan and Frank McLaughlin crafted the easily titled “Have Yourself a Deadly Little Christmas!” Here’s DC’s Blockbuster, the change-his-ways Grinch stand-in for the comic (another Blockbuster, two in less than a week — what’re the odds?):
Not only does he shop at the same Tattered Purple Pants Emporium as Bruce Banner, but he’s good with his hands! The young toughs he KRAKs and KROOMs above had just snatched a young lady’s purse, launching the Blockbuster on a dim-witted quest to return it to her. That theft was the last straw for the poor (yet attractive — can’t have her be poor AND ugly) Kathy, who decides to end her miserable, crappy, shabby one-room apartment life. An overdose of sleeping pills is her Christmas feast — JOY TO THE WORLD. What makes this even more depressing is that she calls a police station for her last farewell (just what I’d want — my last words to be spoken to Barney Miller and Fish):
In a twist (A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE), Batman’s there to drop of a gift for his platonic life-partner, Jim Gordon:
Legends of the Dark Suicide Hotline Counselor:
Bats goes into full NOT ON MY WATCH mode. But Blockbuster (with purse) beats him to the dying Kathy:
I confess, the “nok nok KRAM” made me laugh.
Block scoops her up and wanders off with a vague idea to get some sort of help. But he’s a bit possessive and grabby (think Lenny with rabbits in Of Mice and Men) and this brings him into conflict with someone else who’s on a mission of mercy:
Do you sometimes wonder if Batman ever sat down in the Cave and did a cost-benefit analysis of his cape? Maybe pulled out a yellow legal pad, took out his Batpen and drew a line down the middle, listed one half PROS and the other CONS, then went to town? “PRO — Aides in striking fear in the hearts of criminals. CON — IT WILL ONE DAY KILL YOU, YOU IDIOT.”
While Batman shakes off the cobwebs, Kathy is well on her way to developing a comic book Stockholm Syndrome:
HO HO HO:
I think that might actually be the “real” Santa, apparently taking a shift down at the Salvation Army bucket. Whatever the case, he’s unable to help because the Blockbuster gets jealous and spirits his rescuee/hostage away. Somehow they end up on ice floes in the river (surprised they didn’t see Rudolph, Hermey, Yukon Cornelius and the sled dogs out there), and this is where the Blockbuster performs a final heroic act:
Kathy recovers with fresh optimism and a renewed lease on life. Once again, A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE. And has anyone ever tabulated how many Batman books ended with our hero and Gordon standing side by side reflecting on the most recent case/caper?:
There are definite demerits in this issue. The art is less than stellar (especially after being taunted by an Aparo Batman cover) and plot elements are ham-handed. Also, while I have no beef with there being snow in a winter-set story, the omnipresent gigantic flakes are a tad distracting. You half expect them to start showing up in the indoor scenes.
Still, I like it. If a Christmas suicide seems a bit heavy, keep in mind that even Superman, DC’s beacon of light and hope, has grappled with this depressing subject. What really helps the story overcome the downer vibe is the gift exchange between Batman and Gordon. Pipe tobacco for a charitable donation seems a perfectly apt holiday trade for these two guys, and I’m left wondering what blend Gordon smokes. Maybe “Manly Trenchcoat Moustache Delight.” I’m also curious whether Batman brings the full resources of Wayne Industries to bear in securing the most potently aromatic leaves on the face of the Earth. One likes to think so.
Good, clean Batman Christmas fun. Maybe he does belong.
YOU WON’T BELIEVE IT’S AN AIRGUN! AND NEITHER WILL THE OFFICER YOU’RE POINTING IT AT!
Best to keep this one in the comfort of your own indoor shooting range.
“Hey, let’s see how many times we can cram PUSSY into this Wonder Woman cupcake ad.”
Maybe they were trying to divert attention from her rack. WE GET IT, HOSTESS, IT’S A PUSSYCAT.
Slim Jim: A Small Tubular Tale of Cured Meaty Horror
I have a brief, pointless Slim Jim story for you.
While I was in college my roommate and I were pretty big wrestling fans. This was back during the infamous Monday Night Wars, when the WWF and WCW staged rival programs on the same night and you’d have to have the “previous channel” button on your remote in good working order. OR ELSE. It was the golden age of pro wrestling, with Stone Cold Steve Austin and the Rock ascendant, with Bill Goldberg and Sting and the NWO rolling. It was all good homoerotic carnie fun.
Anyway, I opened up my mailbox at the campus post office one day during my senior year (2000) and found a slip telling me I had a package to pick up. I went to the window not knowing what in hell it could possibly be. I wasn’t expecting a parcel, and my parents weren’t the type to mail care packages.
There was a brown wrapped cylinder. Picture a can of Pringles on steroids — that was about the size of it. My name was on the paper, so it really was mine. No mistake. Believe me, the thought SOMEONE HAS MAILED ME A PIPE BOMB THEY CAUGHT THAT UNABOMBER GUY RIGHT? passed through me head.
I went to a nearby bench, sat down and opened it up. This is what I found (journalistic note:this is a picture culled from the web, not the actual item mailed to me):
Yes. A tin of Slim Jims with product spokeswrestler Macho Man Randy Savage on it, along with his valet at the time, Gorgeous George. Well. When I got over the WHAT IN THE NAME OF HEAVEN IS THIS AND WHY WAS IT SENT TO ME surprise, I had a good laugh about Macho. Look at him. He’s so proud. He has Slim Jims, a skank crammed into some tight leather and new hair plugs (no more neon hats for Macho). What more could a man want? OOOOOOOOOOH YEEEEEAAAAAAAAH.
The explanation for this monstrosity’s delivery was fairly simple, which I learned when I got home and slammed it down on the table in front of my roommate and leveled a withering IS THIS YOUR DOING stare. It turned out he had entered his name in some dopey wrestling-themed online contest. God only knows what the grand prize was, maybe Macho came to your house and dropped an elbow on you from the second story. Or Gorgeous George blew you. I’m not sure which would be more appealing. Whatever the lure might have been, he had entered my name as well to double the chances, like a lonely old man buying two Powerball tickets. OUR HOUSEHOLD MUST HAVE FREE WRESTLING MERCHANDISE. And here I was, the recipient of one of the stellar consolation prizes.
Here’s where the horror comes in.
I was never much of a Slim Jim fan (they’re like hot dogs but without the nutritional value), but I started eating one here and snapping into another there. So did my roommate. Then one night, stumbling home from the bars sloppy drunk, I found our cupboards bare and the freezer devoid of the Hot Pockets and frozen pizza that were the sodium laden saturated fat staples of my undergraduate diet. In the dim kitchen light I saw the tin sitting on the counter.
And that’s the last thing I remember until I awoke (I kid you not), all kicked back in my old Archie Bunker recliner with its torn upholstery, the uncapped tin in my lap and empty wrappers around me like autumn leaves. I looked into it. Empty. The abyss stared back at me. Keep in mind, there were dozens of the damn things left before this binge. Dozens upon dozens upon dozens.
I felt like Ellen Ripley in Aliens when she was in that lab and saw that the jars with the facehuggers had been overturned. OH MY GOD WHAT’S GOING ON. And, to keep with that theme, my next sensation was a John Hurt degree of gastrointestinal distress.
It was bad. BAD bad. Both ends bad. “Maybe I should call the poison control center and hope they don’t laugh me off the line” bad. And-
And that’s where our cautionary tale shall terminate, though I assure you, my suffering did not resolve itself so neatly.
When I heard the sad news this year that the Macho Man had died, my grief about the loss of such a great entertainer (he was — don’t let any anti-wrestling prejudices fool you) was mixed with this terrible memory, when his treasured Slim Jims invaded my home and almost killed me. And every time I see an ad in a comic like the one above, I feel that phantom knife in my gut trying to stab its way out.
Let’s go down to Rockefeller Center for a nice skate and a superpowered fistfight – Omega the Unknown #9
For some reason I always used to think that Omega was a Jack Kirby creation. Maybe it’s the Kirby dots in the character box.
I’m not sure that it was advantage that most of Marvel’s titles were centered in New York City. I never liked that DC’s heroes were all champions of fictional cities that you could never really place on a map, and that half of the burgs had pretensions of being an Earth-1 stand-in for the Big Apple. Confusing. That Marvel’s pantheon was a NYC stable may have generated some staleness, but it was simpler, and it most assuredly added authenticity to the books. The artists lived and worked there (sometimes they were born and raised there) and that familiarity seeped into their work. You could imagine characters flying or swinging or running down the comic streets because they looked like New York’s streets. And now and then a landmark was thrown in for good measure, just to help you get your bearings.
Well, we have a big landmark here. MEET ME DOWN AT THE GIANT GOLD STATUE. Rockefeller Center — with its noted buildings, skating rink and statuary — serves as a backdrop, and an apt one for the holidays.
Omega the Unknown, that strong, taciturn 1970s alien with a strange connection to a young orphan (not that kind of strange connection), here (Script: Steve Gerber & Mary Skrenes, Art: Jim Mooney) does battle with Marvel’s Blockbuster down at the Rock. Before we get to that though, let’s meet the (then) new Foolkiller and his ridiculous Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber duds:
Point that deadly vaporizing gun at yourself, Foo’.
Blockbuster busts no blocks in this issue, but does shatter plate glass and thus get the attention of Omega — Plateglassshatterer:
Off Omega goes in hot pursuit of Blockbuster and the promised reward, and looky where they end up:
Before there was Tonya Harding vs. Nancy Kerrigan, there was Omega vs. Blockbuster. Place your bets.
A prominent storytelling rule is followed here, the one that says if a comic book has a famous statue featured in its pages, said statue must be either A) ripped off its pedestal and used to club a character over the head, or B) used as a backstop when a character is thrown into it. B it is!:
Omega scoops himself off of Prometheus’ golden lap, gets his ass kicked, and then Foolkiller shows up and kills Blockbuster. MERRY CHRISTMAS:
Hey — more Kirby dots. BLOCKBUSTER DID NOT DIE IN VAIN.
Jemm, Son of Saturn was my Omega the Unknown, with an alien and a kid and a city. I liked Jemm as a youth, and I can see why others liked Omega, even if it died a quick death after the next issue (the Omega issue, as it were). The latter has been collected — maybe you’d want to track it down. Make it a Christmas gift to yourself or the comic-lover in your life. Fair warning: Not every issue contained landmarks and skating rink-themed dustups. Can’t win them all.
WOULD YOU JUST SHUT UP ABOUT YOUR STUPID SHOES
Remember that “How many licks to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop” ad? Here’s a variant: How many times could Thom McAn brag about his dopey Thom McAn shoes before he got punched in his Thom McAn face? I’m guessing five. He should take some cues from his buddy H.
If only we had one more panel.
One last look at those glorious…
Take one last look, America. One last sweaty lingering-too-long “my eyes are up here” look.
Jared
blog into mystery 