It’s Z-Z-Z…Z-Z-Z…IT’S SO TERRIFYING THE WORD CANNOT EVEN BE UTTERED – ‘Mazing Man #5
Look up at that cover. See anything missing? Anything? Bueller?
We’ll come back to that in a moment. First, a word about ‘Mazing Man. This was a title that was a bit over my head as a youngster, but it was certainly one that developed a loyal fan following. It chronicled the minor escapades of one Sigfried Horatio Hunch III, a little fella with a cobbled together costume who did good deeds around his apartment complex. Sigfried and his delusions of grandeur (and his Galactusy tuning forks) were kind of sad and pulled at your heartstrings — I’ve long thought that Arnold Stang would have made a hell of a ‘Mazing Man. One of the major characters was an anthropomorphic dog (kind of limited the vérité) who wrote comics (okay, I take that back about the vérité), and many of the ne’er-do-well neighbors and friends that formed his tiny world can be glimpsed on that cover.
Ah yes. The cover.
As you may have seen, it lacks that little stamp that was the kiss of respectability and wholesomeness, that told worried parents that THIS COMIC DOES NOT HAVE WORDS OR IMAGES THAT WILL TURN YOUR CHILD INTO A DERANGED PERVERT BEATNIK RAPIST COMMIE SERIAL KILLER. Yes, the comic about the sad little man who wore a bucket on his head and polka-dotted underwear over his pants ran afoul of the Comics Code Authority. YOU WANT THEM ON THAT WALL.
There have been countless articles railing against the bureaucratic stupidity of the CCA and the senseless ossification of its strictures, and more than enough Molotov cocktails tossed through its windows. This shan’t be a diatribe, nor will it be a soapbox to relitigate the case against it. Yeah, the Code was stupid, an industry overreaction to 1950s hysteria about innocents being seduced. It was dumb, and it got dumber as time rolled along. But there’s nothing to be gained by kicking a dead horse.
Well, maybe a little kick. That the harmless little ‘Mazing Man had a comic that ran afoul of its dictates fills me…it fills me with something. I don’t know what. Maybe bemusement.
What drove little Siegfried into the Forbidden Zone? In this issue (scripted by Stephen DeStefano and Bob Rozakis), Denton Fix, the walking, talking, comics-writing dog, is having a bad case of writer’s block, hence the giant stone letters crushing him on the cover. His well-meaning if infuriating neighbors traipse in and out of his apartment, keeping him from working through his difficulties and offering their own terrible story ideas to kickstart his creative juices. Most of the tales are self-serving, casting the teller as the dashing or beset lead. ‘Mazing Man tells a touching one about a ‘Mazing Manish hero, with the subtext of his story really being how much he likes his friend. Cute. But the one that concerns us (and the censors of old) is an EC inspired (and, appropriately enough, Joe Orlando-pencilled) bit about, well:
NOT ONLY ARE THE DEAD LIVING, THEY’RE…THEY’RE…:
ZOMBIES!
(Puts back of hand to forehead as if about to faint.)
This swamp-infused interlude — with its muted colors and ghoulish fiends — would make William Gaines proud. But not the CCA. The tone of my reaction to this lingering stupidity, which left these few innocuous “horror” parody pages out in the unsanctioned wilderness (as if that mattered, but still…), is something akin to Triumph the Insult Comic Dog’s take on Hawaiians and bad weather. That’s where we’ll let the matter rest.
Anyway, the Code is dead (DING DONG). That it survived into this century(!) is a testament to inertia. And this comic is a fine example of how foolish it became.
The perfect Christmas gift for the no-talent hack in your life
Captain Tootsie punches a thieving French beautician in the face (with an uncredited Dick Tracy cameo)
U S A! U S A!
It’s quite fitting that one of the members of the C.C. Beck-drawn Captain Tootsie Secret Legion is named Fatso, don’t you think? Yeah kid, keep popping those Tootsie Rolls for “energy.”
And Dick Tracy has a mug so familiar he needs no labeling. (Tootsie Roll sponsored his radio show, in case you were wondering whether or not he was crashing the Captain’s party.)
Dames… – Hercules (Charlton) #5
The great thing about myths is that they come pre-installed with backstory and dramatis personae, a huge plus for lazy/harried writers who need some fully furnished material to meet a deadline or fill out a proposal. You can drive myths and legends off the lot and go from there, hence comic companies incorporating antiquated gods into their character stables.
The bad part about myths is that you can’t copyright them. They’re the public domainiest of public domain properties. And that’s why the world of comics has roughly 86 Herculeses (or Heracleses) bobbing about, including the title character in this 1960s Charlton series. The more the merrier.
If it lacked the lusty, loutish boasting of the Marvel take on the character, at least “The Adventures of the Man-God” had the merit of following Hercules as he traipsed his way through his legendary twelve labors. Everybody loves a good quest, which is doubly true when the quest fits into a nice round dozen. And this installment is of particular note to our “can’t copyright” theme because it brings an icon associated with the House of Ideas into conflict with a mythical figure linked to said House’s Cain and Abel rival, DC.
Scripted by Denny O’Neil (under his Charlton pen-name of Sergius O’Shaugnessy — what, Chareth Cutestory was taken?) with art by Sam Glanzman, the story opens with Hercules engaging in a very Herculean activity:
It’s like Chris Farley with fish.
Hera and Zeus give Hercules his next mission (should he choose to accept it) before he even has a chance to towel off:
The Golden Girdle of Hippolyta is a belt in these pages. It looks like a belt and they call it a belt. This is a no-girdle zone. I guess girdles belong more on chunky broads and Phil Mickelson.
Off Hercules goes to the land of the Amazons, wearing his trusty cloak skinned from another labor, the Nemean lion. A note on that: It looks as if Hercules is carrying Simba around like a papoose most of the time (or Chewbacca with C-3PO), and Simba’s about to bite his damn head off. Either that or mount him. It reminds me a bit of Hulk and his spiny pal Sym.
In no time Hercules arrives in his Wonder Woman-free realm destination. Hippolyta (a Hippolyta that never squeezed a Diana out of her womb or molded her out of clay or whatever) spreads a, um, feast before him:
Things go sideways fast despite all this luxuriant promise. The Queen is using the belt’s mind-control properties to hold her people in bondage, and she’s not keen on giving it up. Hercules is held as a hostage, and when Zeus is about to send some help by hurling a thunderbolt his way, Hera proves that even Olympus isn’t free of nagging shrews:
MOTHER WAS RIGHT — I SHOULD’VE MARRIED HADES! AND TAKE OUT THE GARBAGE!
Evil step-mother Hera also intervenes in Hercules’ inevitable battle against the queen, rendering him unable to fight back against a woman. (“Do you want this goddamn belt-girdle or not?”) Thank the gods a nubile wench that Hercules had earlier rescued is around to deliver a convenient rock to the skull:
The people are free and Hercules has his belt. And what happens when he presents this hard-won prize to the goddess who’d asked for it?:
I think we’d all forgive Hercules if he threw down the belt and let loose with a “AIN’T GOT NO TIME FO NO HOS!” at this point. And off he tramps to his next labor.
There are several decades of familiarity with Marvel’s Hercules that a reader has to overcome in reading this tale for the first time at such a late date. I see and smell newsprint and read “Hercules” I think of the guy who slams around Avengers Mansion with a wine-filled goblet in his hand. MAKE MERRY. Not the comic’s fault, but nevertheless… Even factoring in that handicap, though, this book could be better. The art is dodgy in parts (Hercules looks too sinister to be a hero) and the script is simple and formulaic (Mr. O’Neil had yet to get into his DC groove). But it’s several orders of magnitude better than contemporaneous material coming out of Charlton, like the unfathomably dreadful Son of Vulcan. And there’s something to be said for a series that follows the most familiar of all demigods as he checks off his various labors.
It’s not the Hercules that we know and love. It’s a middling book. But if a man who wears a lion and rescues babes and kills evil babes for their girdles floats your boat, MY FRIEND, HAVE I GOT A COMIC FOR YOU.
1960s Cars: Unsmall at Any Speed
I find an ad for cheap cars a bit odd in a comic book. I realize comics have had and always will have an adult reading contingent (perhaps ads for kid stuff would stick out more these days), but automobiles seem a bridge too far. This kind of sticks out when compared to the usual crap. Like rods and reels in a romance book.
“How about this leaflet, Famous Jewish Sports Legends?”
Hank Greenberg and Sandy Koufax were/are certainly the alpha and omega of Jewish baseball greats. And the strapping Hebrew Hammer is definitely more deserving of a 1940s Wheaties endorsement deal than (with all due respect) Frank McCormick.
I managed to pull Rin Tin Tin and Jackie Robinson out of this bitch before it disintegrated – Real Fact Comics #2
Clowns. Terrifying in any decade.
I had grand plans to go through this entire issue. I can’t get enough of Golden Age comics. They’re terrible reads, but excellent windows into THE WAY WE WERE. It’s like going through your grandparents’ attic. “People were like that? They wore that? They ate that?”
So I bought this 1946 comic, even though it was in terrible shape. Intact, but terrible. Then I went to scan it, and it started to fall apart in my hands. Seen The Blues Brothers? Remember when Jake and Elwood finally made it to the building that housed the Cook County Assessor’s office, and the Bluesmobile literally fell apart? That’s what started to happen. But I persevered. And then my scanner froze up in mid scan and I lost all the scans I had done up to that point. And I had to start over. And I pretty much gave up.
The best laid plans of mice and men.
As much as I’d like to give you the comic life story of P.T. Barnum and the other luminaries within, I’m cock-blocked. And I wasn’t eve going to mock the “Real Fact” aspect of the book, either, because I actually learned something reading it. Which brings me to one of the two scans (plus a few ads) that I was able to drag out of this book.
I thought Rin Tin Tin was completely fictional, another Lassie or Benjy or Air Bud. But he (the original, at least) was real. And he was born at the World War I front. IT SAYS SO IN THE COMIC:
Knowledge for life.
Also, there was this pretty damn nice Jackie Robinson pin-up, predating his Major League debut with the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947. It’s different seeing an early contemporaneous tribute, as opposed to the (deserved) hagiography of later years:
I always thought of the Negro Leagues as “organized” baseball. I guess that was a nicer way to say “lily-white.” Neat nevertheless.
The Real Fact books were Whitman’s Samplers of material. I guess this was a sample of the sample. Hope you liked it, and that the Jackie Robinson page was a chocolate covered cherry and not that God-awful coconut thing.
Lee Leens: The Grown Up Jeans THAT CAN KILL YOU
We’ve seen that Lee Jeans can instill the requisite moral fiber and testicular fortitude to break up a rustling ring. Did you know that they can help put young kids in incredibly dangerous situations? That they can give a youth the chameleon qualities of a pubescent Frank Abagnale? You do now.
Give your lover the gift of crabs this holiday season
I’m not sure that these Crazy Crabs are more or less creepy than Sea-Monkeys. That a creature named Suzy looks to have a crabby Rollie Fingers moustache goes onto the “more” side of the ledger.
The Mighty Marvel Blooper Reel – The Marvel No-Prize Book #1
Gene Roddenberry, during the original run of Star Trek and after its cancellation, when he was making the rounds of conventions (igniting the never-ending cycle of “I Grok Spock” pilgrimages), would often carry with him a reel or two of bloopers from the series. It was good, light-hearted fodder and the crowds ate it up, but it drove the actors involved nuts. They resented having their goofs, their flubs, their screw ups paraded before the public. It made them look stupid. It was a bit embarrassing, and they weren’t getting any residual checks from this public shaming.
I think I learned that from reading one of William Shatner’s memoirs. Yes, I just admitted to reading William Shatner’s memoirs. WHO’S EMBARRASSED NOW?
Stan Lee’s P.T. Barnum qualities are a lot like Roddenberry’s circuit-riding hucksterism. I’m not saying they’re identical (I don’t think Lee ever diddled Nurse Chapel). But there’s some overlap. And this No-Prize Book (an outgrowth of Lee’s longstanding No-Prize for eagle-eyed error-spotting readers) reminded me of those blooper reels.
It’s nowhere near as offensive, since Lee’s own goofs are at the forefront — no Roddenberry script typos made it onto the convention footage. And this was more a Jim Shooter brainchild. Whatever its origins, the book’s a lot of fun. I thought people unfamiliar might like to see a few of the panoply of errors — some big, some small — that riddled the Marvel era of comics.
Some are head-scratchingly obvious, especially with decades of retrospect. Everyone knows Peter Palmer, the Spectacular Spider-Man. Right?:
I guess they hadn’t nailed down the bespectacled teen’s name at that point.
You have mistakes keen, practiced geeks would call out, though ones that would fly over lazy heads like my own:
You have errors that violate every law of geography, geology, and common sense:
You have bewildering script miscues (this one made me guffaw):
And you have sartorial transgressions that might not strictly be “errors,” but nevertheless rankle:
What’s the ultimate gaffe presented within these pages? Oddly enough, it’s one that I myself once let slide through this blog’s filters. In a post many moons ago I was so blinded by the surging dynamism of Jack Kirby’s art it made it past my admittedly porous defenses. Go to the bottom two scans here if you want to check it out.
That’s it. Time to go. There are a lot more goofs to be gawked at, but that’s a good sampling . If you ever find this 1982 book cheap, it might make for some good laughs.
Only one of us is making it out of this post alive. AND IT WON’T BE ME.
More Ovaltine and hockey magnets, please
As a resident of the D.C. metropolitan area, I take umbrage at the Washington Capitals being placed at the bottom of their division standings. The C(r)aps indeed. Choking dogs even in an advert’s default positioning. Dagger.
Green Arrow repaints and repurposes the Ambiguously Gay Duo’s car
Not sure if Ace and Gary’s penis car still has its vibrating function. I guess GA must have bought at a superhero police auction or something. At least it now shoots a “giant blunt arrow” instead of, well, whatever it was that blasted out of it before.
The Mangler looks to be DC’s answer to Killdozer. And the Batcopter looks like a bucket with a propeller welded on. HAVE FUN, KIDS.
Not everyone can carry the weight of the world. But Kirby and Atlas… – 1st Issue Special #1
No one would question the fecundity of Jack Kirby’s mind. In the 1970s he ran wild throwing ideas against the wall, scattin’ and beboppin’ all over the place to varying effect. Some creations, like the Fourth World saga, stuck, and became foundational elements of a broader fictional universe. Others, like OMAC, were remembered, perhaps not as fondly, but remembered nonetheless. And others slid down that wall like slimy egg yolks, right down into the dark cobwebbed corners of our collective consciousness.
It’s no stretch to put Atlas in that last category.
This muscley man with his little red riding hood got his sole trial run in this, the senses-shattering premiere of what should have been called 1st (and Last) Issue Special— not the best track record for launching concepts. And Atlas didn’t exactly help the title put its best foot forward. You could see that Jolly Jack wasn’t firing on all cylinders here, even if there are moments where his usual sweeping grandeur comes out to play. Let’s get some of that positive stuff on the table (if you can’t say something nice…), like this two-page splash (inks by D. Bruce Berry):
Not bad. Like biscuits, people. LIKE BISCUITS.
Splashes like the one above may be a selling point, but they also exemplify one of the great weaknesses of this introductory tale. It’s riddled with over-large panels, which, instead of adding to the scale and scope of the narrative, only serve to highlight what a thin broth we’re being served. Kirby often used big honkin’ stuff to great effect, but it’s too much in this case. It cuts down on the story, a deadly deed when groundwork is (supposedly) being laid. It’s like watching Lost, when you were so desperate for more answers to the series’ legion of core puzzles, but were instead given a slow-motion, piano-accompanied sequence of people walking on a beach at the end of almost every episode. WHAT IS THIS CRAP? BRING ME MY HOSSENFEFFER.
A lot of sizzle, but far too little steak.
While not providing the reader with much story, this one issue also glossed over a mini-series’ worth of plot development. The comic offers up a highly derivative origin for Atlas, complete with a murdered family, a wise mentor and a lifetime quest for vengeance against an evil ruler (an evil ruler THAT KILLED HIS FAMILY). Maybe such things were fresh when this was conceived. Doubtful. The point is, you weren’t given much, but you were given everything. Know what I mean?
Maybe this comic was damned if it did, damned if it didn’t. Or maybe it screwed you coming and going. Maybe both.
But hey, at least there’s this Atlasy moment for the big fella, as he gets to balance something heavy on his shoulders:
The Earth. A bridge. There’s nothing that this guy can’t perch across his meaty deltoids. Like Jurgis Rudkus in The Jungle, “[his] back is broad!”
Sadly (or not), neither Atlas’ well-developed trapezius muscles nor this comic could get him an ongoing series. This now-depressing appeal for reader input and a series-launching sanction — using as it does Kirby’s track record, as if that’s supposed to spin straw into gold — serves as a grave marker:
Atlas, mothballed for decades, did get an update in recent years in Superman. Maybe he can one day up himself into the OMAC tier.
Doubtful.
Joe Kubert Promotional Art One Million Years in the Making!
Ignore the questionable anthropology and just enjoy a masterful Joe Kubert composition, including Tor’s name rising up from the primitive muck like the 2001 monolith.
Let Willy Wonka show you a card trick, LITTLE BOY
I always got a Jerry Sandusky vibe from Willy Wonka, long before anyone on Earth outside of State College, Pa. knew who Jerry Sandusky was. Creepy. “There’s more magic and candy in my back room!”
Jared
blog into mystery 
