The Super Friends Poster

I'm out of my poster phase now. But in the 1990's and 2000's I obviously strongly felt that my comic sanctuary and work area should be covered wall-to-wall in super hero posters. Looking as much as possible like the inside of a comic book shop.

Now, in the new comic book sanctuary that we've recently built, I've only put up one poster. Lorie and I are both tired of little pin pricks all over the walls, and I'm being very picky about what gets displayed in the comic sanctuary. On one wall, my Aquaman fathead dominates the space. Given to me by pals Larry, Steve, and Scott for Christmas one year, the fathead is huge and the bright colors really pop on the deep brown walls of the room.





On the other side of the room, in the reading nook above the couch, we've mounted a poster frame. This is something that I can change out at will, choosing to display a new poster every month. So far, I've only ever kept one poster up. This one:


It only seems right. Showcasing the very basic elements of what started my lifelong passion with comics. A call back to my childhood and an era of comics that I'm still vastly in love with.

But there's another reason at play here. I had a similar poster as a kid. It was the only poster I had as a kid.

We moved a lot, as regular readers already know, and littering the walls with posters didn't really seem like a good idea. But when we lived in Texas, I remember eagerly ordering a Super Friends poster from the Scholastic Book club flyer passed out at school. I remember waiting an eternity for the poster to arrive, and I remember cutting out the picture of it from the Scholastic flyer and keeping it. I looked at that little picture quite a lot. And I remember putting the poster up on the wall when it finally arrived. I remember when we were packing up my toys and belongings for our next move. And I remember the poster getting torn when we took it down from the wall. I was crushed.

But see... memory is a tricky thing. And when I asked my mother to forward me a picture I knew she had of us reading a book under the poster, this is what she sent:


What? Several glaring inaccuracies spring up in the story I just told you.

First, that baby sitting in my lap is my baby sister Robyn. So this had to be in Plattsburgh, New York, 1978. Which means the poster didn't get ripped to the point of destruction in Texas as I had thought.

Second, there's more than one poster! See that! And that one over there! I remember those! I had completely forgotten those posters. Glorious remembrances of the 1970's versions of those characters. I would stare at those posters for quite awhile. They didn't make it past our next move, unless my mother can produce photographic evidence to prove me wrong.

Third, I'm wearing football pajamas. The Dallas Cowboys, if I'm not mistaken. This is the equivalent of Ashton constantly having to wear super hero pajamas growing up. If you had asked me yesterday if I had ever owned any football pajamas, I would have laughed at you and said "of course not". But here comes my mother... readjusting our expectations with photographic reality.

Fourth, my Mom is hot!

Fifth... that hair. What the heck? Holy Moley! I'm sporting the world's worst Prince Valiant cut. Was that punishment, Mom? What could I have done to earn such a badge of shame? Were we actively TRYING to make sure I was always identified as the weird kid? Was a crippling comic book obsession and loud love of Star Trek not enough to geek-ify me? Ugh.

My thirteen year old son, Ashton, thinks his hair cuts are terrible. Next time I'll arrange for an Air Force barber from the seventies to make this little masterpiece on top of his head.

Thanks,
DCD