Folks,
I'm having a bit of trouble catching up with life at the moment. So here's one of my favorite stories I posted some years back on a writing website called Furball Factory. Please enjoy.
DCD
I remember very clearly my first issue of Brave and the Bold. Summer of 1977. I was seven.
That summer, the Air Force decided to move us from San Antonio, Texas to Plattsburgh Air Force Base in upstate New York. My parents made a long road trip of it, stopping to see every conceivable family friend and relative along the way. Mom was pregnant with my baby sister Robyn and not feeling too well. I remember her sitting at the kitchen table at Aunt Betty Knight's, holding her forehead in pain and keeping her eyes squeezed shut. Everyone was trying to leave her alone. I approached to offer her my latest issue of Swamp Thing to read. My logic was that comics always made me feel better when my tummy hurt, so she should give them a try. She quietly thanked me and refused the comic, preferring to handle the pain in her own way. To each their own.
That road trip will forever stick in my mind. My mother had bought enough comics to keep me quiet for the duration of the trip. If it's one thing my parents knew, it was that comics would keep me docile. My mother had a time schedule for 'trip happy' distribution. I would get a comic, my sister would get some puzzle book or picture book or some crappy thing. My sister could take them or leave them. Whatever. But my comics...ahhh what a trip.
At one point, the moment of 'trip happy' distribution came along and Mom was asleep. Curses! I was now counting on my father to remember. I stared intently at the back of his head, too respectful and fearful to mention anything to him. Would he miss the appointed moment? Most assuredly. I'm not even sure he was fully aware we were getting regular 'trip happies'. Although, he must have paid for them. When Mom woke up, she took entirely too long to fully come to her senses. Checking her watch, she turned to Dad and asked if he had given us our 'happies' yet. I answered for him.
My first issue of Brave and the Bold was given to me on this trip. We were entering North Carolina and a couple of hours away from my maternal grandmothers. It was issue 135, Batman meets the Metal Men. I had never heard of the Metal Men, and was eager to learn more. The issue was drawn by Jim Aparo and ended in a cliff hangar. The cliff hangar ending bothered me, but the artwork was fantastic. I believe that was my first Jim Aparo Batman, and he was so graceful and powerful under Mr. Aparo's pencils that I went on to judge other Batman appearances by that look. Beautiful. I was too young to associate an art style with an artists name, but I had long since learned to tell the different art styles apart. I could tell Jim Aparo from Neal Adams from Mike Grell from Dick Dillon when my closest friends couldn't even tell you who the Legion of Super Heroes were. I read the issue. Reread the issue. Flipped through admiring the artwork. Then read the issue again. This was standard operating procedure when I was seven. The issue was perfect.
Except....
That title. What in heaven's name did that title mean? "The Brave and the Bold". I sat quietly trying to figure it out. I had learned many new vocabulary words through comics, and 'Bold' was a new one on me. "Bold". The Brave and the "Bold". What did that word mean?
I finally broke down and asked my father. You can disturb my father when asking about a new vocabulary word. But asking him for new comics, those were waters better left untread.
"Dad, what does "Bold" mean?" I asked.
"Bold means brave." My father is famous for the brevity in his answers.
Oy! What an answer, though! 'Bold' means brave!!?!! This comic was entitled the "Brave and the Brave"?! What the heck did that even mean?
My seven year old brain just had to force this to make sense. What kind of comic company, my favorite no less, would name a comic something as silly as the Brave and the Brave? It just didn't make sense.
I sat thinking for awhile. Trying to prevent the thought that was floating around in my subconscious. Soon, the thought took over and I had to face a startling fact.
Maybe Dad was wrong.
It would make much more sense to title the comic "The Brave and the Cowardly". Meaning, of course, that the brave would beat up the cowardly. Or the brave would protect the cowardly. Anything but the brave would team up with other people who were brave. That just seemed silly! These people were professionals who had been putting out comics for years! I could picture their editors sitting in the conference room talking amongst themselves when suddenly: "Wait a minute, people, bold means brave! What have we done!"
So, maybe Dad was wrong.
I looked at my comic book, as if doing a last minute check of the facts. I looked up at the back of my father's head. I thought to myself: "It would be awfully BOLD of me to ask my father if he could be mistaken."
Naaah, that just didn't sound right.
So which need was greater, maintain the status quo and not question my father...ever. Or get my comic book research and understanding done in the meticulous manner that I had been practicing for the last five years.
"Bold." I said out loud.
"Bold. Bold. Bold." I said again.
I was just about to pounce the question when Mom announced we were nearing Grandmom's house. Eagerly using the distraction to chicken out of my question, I put the comic aside and promptly forgot about my quandary.
An addendum to this story is that it was this same comic that I chose to demonstrate my reading skills to my Grandmother. One of the characters, Tin of the Metal Men, stuttered a lot, and I thought this would be an excellent passage to use to prove how well I could read. All I succeeded in doing was upsetting my Grandmother, who worried that comics were creating a stuttering problem for me. Sigh. Nobody gets me.
A couple of days later, we hit the rode again. Destination? Washington, D.C. to spend July fourth in our nation's capital with the Robertsons. My first 'trip happy'? Aquaman #57. Jim Aparo artwork. Life was good!
Showing posts with label childhood stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood stories. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Friday, May 10, 2013
First Visit to a Comic Book Store
I've spoken before about the shift in our culture from when comics were available at every convenience store, drug store, book store and newsstand imaginable to now only being sold through comic book stores. Specialty shops. To me, as wonderful as comic book stores can be, it's this shift that kicked off the serious decline in comic books.
But in the mid-1980's, the shift hadn't happened in full yet. Comics were still being sold everywhere, and comic book specialty shops were springing up all over the nation.
A friend at school told me about comic book stores. I though he was kidding. He asked me if I had been to Burke books in the Burke Center shopping strip. A comic book store. I thought for sure he was teasing me, or setting me up for a prank. So much so, that I called the store to verify their existence and hours before badgering my mother to drive me other there.
It was January, 1985. And I have no idea why Mom agreed to drive me all the way to Burke for this. Maybe we were getting dinner from Subway, stopping at the bank, or heading to Errol's for a video. Maybe it was because we were headed to Grandmom Dill's that weekend and I needed something to keep me busy on the car trip. Or maybe it was a special trip just for this. Which is what I remember it to be. At any rate, she drove me one night, on a dark school night, and waited in the car while I went inside.
The place was empty. It hadn't even been fully set up yet. There was empty space in the back and boxes and boxes that remained unpacked. A small wooden counter, cash register, and scruffy adult with glasses were to my right. To my left was an entire wall of comic books. Wooden racks standing chest high, beginning on the front wall and spiraling down the left wall of the building. I couldn't believe it.
I didn't have long. My mother had made this clear. And I didn't have a lot of money. Just a few dollars. I don't remember browsing for long, I was definitely on overload. This felt so... uncomfortable. I knew it would take me a while to GET comfortable and with Mom waiting I didn't have the time. I found a copy of Secret Wars #12 on the stand. I had loved the first six or seven issues of Secret Wars but the last few issues were leaving me cold. But still... I grabbed it and headed to the register.
The dude behind the register was carefully counting change. Being a teenager, I didn't notice. I immediately started asking him questions. How long have you been open? Are you the owner? Are you guys serious with this? Are you open next week? What IS this place?
He held up a finger at me and continued counting. I felt like a clueless moron. But he didn't let out any annoyance. He finished counting and enthusiastically answered my questions. Then took up my selection and began to ring me up.
"You like Secret Wars?" He asked.
"Yeah. I do." I nodded.
"Well, if you like Secret Wars, DC has their own crossover book that you might be interested in that just started up."
"Really?" I hadn't heard this. This was pre-internet. "I'm actually a big DC fan. What's it called?"
"Crisis on Infinite Earths." he pointed. I wandered over and picked up the book. It... was .... AMAZING. Just purely judging by the George Perez wraparound cover. I bought it. No hesitation.
As much as I loved Secret Wars, I read that first issue of Crisis dozens of times on the trip to Grandmom's house. And dozens of times more after that. My initial trip to a store that specialized in comics was magic enough. But to have a comic this great on top of that was a dream come true.
This was when I was still of the age when every chance to get into a store that sold any comics at all was a rare thing and something to fight for. But this was the age when everything was changing for me and newfound mobility would have me at that store very frequently over the next ten years.
Comic book stores turned into a crutch for me during the unhappy nineties. And later going to the store turned into a chore for me in recent years. Now I'm glad to be digital and free from the chains of physical objects. But as with so many things in life, that experience will never be what it once was. Time, maturity, circumstances, even content of the comics are all different now and that day can never be duplicated. But I have my memory of it.
And I have my copy of Secret Wars #12 and Crisis on Infinite Earths #1 that I bought at Burke Used Books in the Burke Center shopping strip in January of 1985 while my mother waited in the car.
Thanks,
DCD
But in the mid-1980's, the shift hadn't happened in full yet. Comics were still being sold everywhere, and comic book specialty shops were springing up all over the nation.
A friend at school told me about comic book stores. I though he was kidding. He asked me if I had been to Burke books in the Burke Center shopping strip. A comic book store. I thought for sure he was teasing me, or setting me up for a prank. So much so, that I called the store to verify their existence and hours before badgering my mother to drive me other there.
It was January, 1985. And I have no idea why Mom agreed to drive me all the way to Burke for this. Maybe we were getting dinner from Subway, stopping at the bank, or heading to Errol's for a video. Maybe it was because we were headed to Grandmom Dill's that weekend and I needed something to keep me busy on the car trip. Or maybe it was a special trip just for this. Which is what I remember it to be. At any rate, she drove me one night, on a dark school night, and waited in the car while I went inside.
The place was empty. It hadn't even been fully set up yet. There was empty space in the back and boxes and boxes that remained unpacked. A small wooden counter, cash register, and scruffy adult with glasses were to my right. To my left was an entire wall of comic books. Wooden racks standing chest high, beginning on the front wall and spiraling down the left wall of the building. I couldn't believe it.
I didn't have long. My mother had made this clear. And I didn't have a lot of money. Just a few dollars. I don't remember browsing for long, I was definitely on overload. This felt so... uncomfortable. I knew it would take me a while to GET comfortable and with Mom waiting I didn't have the time. I found a copy of Secret Wars #12 on the stand. I had loved the first six or seven issues of Secret Wars but the last few issues were leaving me cold. But still... I grabbed it and headed to the register.
The dude behind the register was carefully counting change. Being a teenager, I didn't notice. I immediately started asking him questions. How long have you been open? Are you the owner? Are you guys serious with this? Are you open next week? What IS this place?
He held up a finger at me and continued counting. I felt like a clueless moron. But he didn't let out any annoyance. He finished counting and enthusiastically answered my questions. Then took up my selection and began to ring me up.
"You like Secret Wars?" He asked.
"Yeah. I do." I nodded.
"Well, if you like Secret Wars, DC has their own crossover book that you might be interested in that just started up."
"Really?" I hadn't heard this. This was pre-internet. "I'm actually a big DC fan. What's it called?"
"Crisis on Infinite Earths." he pointed. I wandered over and picked up the book. It... was .... AMAZING. Just purely judging by the George Perez wraparound cover. I bought it. No hesitation.
As much as I loved Secret Wars, I read that first issue of Crisis dozens of times on the trip to Grandmom's house. And dozens of times more after that. My initial trip to a store that specialized in comics was magic enough. But to have a comic this great on top of that was a dream come true.
This was when I was still of the age when every chance to get into a store that sold any comics at all was a rare thing and something to fight for. But this was the age when everything was changing for me and newfound mobility would have me at that store very frequently over the next ten years.
Comic book stores turned into a crutch for me during the unhappy nineties. And later going to the store turned into a chore for me in recent years. Now I'm glad to be digital and free from the chains of physical objects. But as with so many things in life, that experience will never be what it once was. Time, maturity, circumstances, even content of the comics are all different now and that day can never be duplicated. But I have my memory of it.
And I have my copy of Secret Wars #12 and Crisis on Infinite Earths #1 that I bought at Burke Used Books in the Burke Center shopping strip in January of 1985 while my mother waited in the car.
Thanks,
DCD
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
World's Greatest Super Friends
It's no secret that my favorite cartoon growing up was the Super Friends. Back in the seventies, we didn't have a DVR, TIVO, or even a VHS, so a kid had to make sure that he caught all the episodes. And I had a deep-rooted fear of missing any episode.
These days I have the entire series of Super Friends, nine season spanning twelve years, available digitally and fed to the screen through my Apple TV. Any childhood memory can be summoned in an instant.
Except for one season. One miserable season. One season containing only eight episodes from 1979. It's been killing me.
The thing is, this show is currently being broadcast on various cable channels devoted to nostalgic TV or cartoons. So it's not like that season has been lost to the winds of time. But I've been monitoring iTunes and the DVD news watching for this season to be released for awhile now.
Finally! Finally. On April 23rd this season went on sale as a Target exclusive, and now I have it.
There is not one single original thing happening in these eight cartoons. Nothing mind-blowing at all. Each story is heavily lifted from other source material. It's the most derivative season of the show. (Yes Bill, I did look up 'derivative' to make sure I was using it correctly.)
BUT... but... it's also the most memorable of the Super Friends offerings. Except for perhaps the Challenge of the Super Friends, no other season sticks out in my mind so much. This could be because there were only eight episodes, therefore each episode was rerun several times through the year. Or it could be the derivative nature of the material that makes it so memorable.
The Super Friends end up fighting the genie from Aladdin's lamp.
The Super Friends get changed into hobbits and go on a Lord of the Rings style quest.
I always loved this one for several reasons. It showcases Luthor as the main villain. It was rare that the show would use actual DC villains outside of the Challenge of the Super Friends season. And Luthor ends up winning, but has to release the Super Friends in order to save his own butt. With the touch of a button, the Super Friends are freed, much butt is kicked, and the Earth is saved once again.
The Super Friends fight Captain Nemo. This one is interesting because it uses characters from the bottle city of Kandor.
Easily one of my favorites, despite Aquaman not being present. The Super Friends start fighting Frankenstein's monster. But by the end of the episode Dr. Frankenstein has sapped all their powers into a new monster. And it's up to a powered-up Robin to save the day.
Dr. Sims: "You don't understand! If you use this machine, it could kill you!"
Superman: "I'm afraid it's you who doesn't understand, Doctor Sims. We're GOING to use it."
This one has Batman fighting a space knight with a light saber in a castle on another planet. Glorious. How could one forget an episode with Superman as the Black Knight?
Perhaps the best remembered episode of Super Friends. Superman switches places with an evil counterpart from another dimension. We get to see the evil Super Friends. Including Pirate Aquaman before Peter David made it a reality in the 1990's.
I think this picture speaks for itself.
So yeah... my collection is complete. It's time to hit the couch with the kids and boggle my mind at light saber Batman, hobbit Wonder Woman, super-Robin, evil Superman, and scarecrow Aquaman. And get transported to 1979 all over again.
Thanks,
DCD
These days I have the entire series of Super Friends, nine season spanning twelve years, available digitally and fed to the screen through my Apple TV. Any childhood memory can be summoned in an instant.
Except for one season. One miserable season. One season containing only eight episodes from 1979. It's been killing me.
The thing is, this show is currently being broadcast on various cable channels devoted to nostalgic TV or cartoons. So it's not like that season has been lost to the winds of time. But I've been monitoring iTunes and the DVD news watching for this season to be released for awhile now.
Finally! Finally. On April 23rd this season went on sale as a Target exclusive, and now I have it.
There is not one single original thing happening in these eight cartoons. Nothing mind-blowing at all. Each story is heavily lifted from other source material. It's the most derivative season of the show. (Yes Bill, I did look up 'derivative' to make sure I was using it correctly.)
BUT... but... it's also the most memorable of the Super Friends offerings. Except for perhaps the Challenge of the Super Friends, no other season sticks out in my mind so much. This could be because there were only eight episodes, therefore each episode was rerun several times through the year. Or it could be the derivative nature of the material that makes it so memorable.
The Super Friends end up fighting the genie from Aladdin's lamp.
The Super Friends get changed into hobbits and go on a Lord of the Rings style quest.
I always loved this one for several reasons. It showcases Luthor as the main villain. It was rare that the show would use actual DC villains outside of the Challenge of the Super Friends season. And Luthor ends up winning, but has to release the Super Friends in order to save his own butt. With the touch of a button, the Super Friends are freed, much butt is kicked, and the Earth is saved once again.
The Super Friends fight Captain Nemo. This one is interesting because it uses characters from the bottle city of Kandor.
Easily one of my favorites, despite Aquaman not being present. The Super Friends start fighting Frankenstein's monster. But by the end of the episode Dr. Frankenstein has sapped all their powers into a new monster. And it's up to a powered-up Robin to save the day.
Dr. Sims: "You don't understand! If you use this machine, it could kill you!"
Superman: "I'm afraid it's you who doesn't understand, Doctor Sims. We're GOING to use it."
This one has Batman fighting a space knight with a light saber in a castle on another planet. Glorious. How could one forget an episode with Superman as the Black Knight?
Perhaps the best remembered episode of Super Friends. Superman switches places with an evil counterpart from another dimension. We get to see the evil Super Friends. Including Pirate Aquaman before Peter David made it a reality in the 1990's.
I think this picture speaks for itself.
So yeah... my collection is complete. It's time to hit the couch with the kids and boggle my mind at light saber Batman, hobbit Wonder Woman, super-Robin, evil Superman, and scarecrow Aquaman. And get transported to 1979 all over again.
Thanks,
DCD
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
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
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
Monday, April 29, 2013
Matango
One of my loves and hobbies as an adult is horror movies. However, unlike most of my loves and hobbies, this has no root in my childhood. I never really watched horror movies as a kid. I remember staying home sick from church once and watching the Amazing Colossal Man on the afternoon movie offering with my Father. I remember loving Dracula and dressing as Dracula for Halloween, but I don't remember ever really seeing Dracula until I was in college. I remember the Drac Pack! I loved that cartoon. Does that count as a horror movie?
No. No it decidedly does not.
No, horror movies did not really play into my childhood. My love of horror movies would come in my teen years with a viewing of Aliens and those Friday nights in Clifton. Although, I do remember a television commercial for the Fog that scared the crap out of me.
Between summer of 1978 and summer of 1981 we lived in a small town called Rochester, New Hampshire. Not the famous Rochester, New York. This was different. Rochester, New Hampshire. It was small. And being a small town in the seventies, the streets were alive with kids who knew each other, rode bikes together, and visited each other's house with no formal permission. Therefore, it's under this setting that we'll find an elementary school-aged Chuck at the next door neighbor's house one Saturday afternoon.
I didn't especially like the kid next door. He was kind of a bully, and a year or so older. But I was bored and wanted to play cars and he was next door, so there I was. In his house. But he wouldn't get up off the couch. He lay there watching TV, and the afternoon horror matinee was about to come on. So I plopped down on the floor near him, half-heartedly pulled a few of my cars out of the carrying case, and planted in front of the TV.
The movie was called Matango. And it was strange. A foreign movie, although I really had no concept of what that meant back then. It was a Japanese movie, in color, and a quick IMDB search turns up the fact that it was released in 1963.
The movie followed the plight of a Japanese pleasure boat crew who get shipwrecked on a deserted island. They find an old ship, also shipwrecked, that seems to be in an advanced state of decay. The only thing to eat on the island is mushrooms. And as they try to survive, they slowly start to turn into mushrooms themselves.
....
What?
Yes. You read that right. The crew of the boat begins to turn into mushrooms.
This TERRIFIED me. I was shaken. I watched the entire movie in silence. I collected my cars into the box, nodded at my neighbor, and went back to my house. I still to this day think that neighbor boy knew that movie would scare the crap out of me. I went home, did NOT tell my mom what I had seen for fear of disapproval, and kept the frightening thought of MATANGO to myself for years.
Then... a few years later... I became a father. And as my son grew and grew, I bided my time. Collected the movie on DVD, watched Ashton carefully for the proper developmental cues, and then one day decided the time was ripe. I plunked his diapered butt down in front of the TV and we got our Matango on.
I don't actually remember how old Ashton was when I showed him the movie. I asked him recently if he remembered. His eyes went vacant, saw past me, and his face went cold. He just sat there whispering "Matango. Matango. Matango."
I might be exaggerating slightly.
At any rate, he's never really liked eating mushrooms. I share some blame there.
Y'know, it occurs to me that my youngest boy, Alex, and my daughter have never seen the movie. I think it might be time. Want to join us for movie night?
Thanks,
DCD
No. No it decidedly does not.
No, horror movies did not really play into my childhood. My love of horror movies would come in my teen years with a viewing of Aliens and those Friday nights in Clifton. Although, I do remember a television commercial for the Fog that scared the crap out of me.
Between summer of 1978 and summer of 1981 we lived in a small town called Rochester, New Hampshire. Not the famous Rochester, New York. This was different. Rochester, New Hampshire. It was small. And being a small town in the seventies, the streets were alive with kids who knew each other, rode bikes together, and visited each other's house with no formal permission. Therefore, it's under this setting that we'll find an elementary school-aged Chuck at the next door neighbor's house one Saturday afternoon.
I didn't especially like the kid next door. He was kind of a bully, and a year or so older. But I was bored and wanted to play cars and he was next door, so there I was. In his house. But he wouldn't get up off the couch. He lay there watching TV, and the afternoon horror matinee was about to come on. So I plopped down on the floor near him, half-heartedly pulled a few of my cars out of the carrying case, and planted in front of the TV.
The movie was called Matango. And it was strange. A foreign movie, although I really had no concept of what that meant back then. It was a Japanese movie, in color, and a quick IMDB search turns up the fact that it was released in 1963.
The movie followed the plight of a Japanese pleasure boat crew who get shipwrecked on a deserted island. They find an old ship, also shipwrecked, that seems to be in an advanced state of decay. The only thing to eat on the island is mushrooms. And as they try to survive, they slowly start to turn into mushrooms themselves.
....
What?
Yes. You read that right. The crew of the boat begins to turn into mushrooms.
This TERRIFIED me. I was shaken. I watched the entire movie in silence. I collected my cars into the box, nodded at my neighbor, and went back to my house. I still to this day think that neighbor boy knew that movie would scare the crap out of me. I went home, did NOT tell my mom what I had seen for fear of disapproval, and kept the frightening thought of MATANGO to myself for years.
Then... a few years later... I became a father. And as my son grew and grew, I bided my time. Collected the movie on DVD, watched Ashton carefully for the proper developmental cues, and then one day decided the time was ripe. I plunked his diapered butt down in front of the TV and we got our Matango on.
I don't actually remember how old Ashton was when I showed him the movie. I asked him recently if he remembered. His eyes went vacant, saw past me, and his face went cold. He just sat there whispering "Matango. Matango. Matango."
I might be exaggerating slightly.
At any rate, he's never really liked eating mushrooms. I share some blame there.
Y'know, it occurs to me that my youngest boy, Alex, and my daughter have never seen the movie. I think it might be time. Want to join us for movie night?
Thanks,
DCD
Friday, February 15, 2013
Six Million Dollar Childhood
One of my many loves is the Six Million Dollar Man. I have many strong memories and passions that carried over from childhood. The squinty, open shirt, wide-collared Lee Majors portrayal of Col. Steve Austin seems to be particularly strong with me as an adult. I think one of the reasons is that I went a good portion of my life without the show or any version of it. Unlike Star Trek. So it's almost as if I'm rediscovering the show as an adult. And rediscovering how fond I was of the show in the mid-1970's.
The show started in January of 1974 and lasted until Spring of 1978. Which means that part of the show's allure for me is it's pre-Robyn-ness. My baby sister Robyn was born in November of 1977 when we lived in Plattsburgh, New York. So it's not actually the fact of being without Robyn, but it's the idea that this was the proto-Dill family that loved the show. The early childhood stages of living in Texas, and not having an infant sister to contend with. We watched the show as a family. I do remember that. And ever time Steve Austin would climb into a plane my mother would check with my father for Air Force accuracy.
His answer fell into two ranges: "yep" and "nope".
I remember being jaw-droppingly stunned at Steve's fight with mechanized monster Bigfoot. I remember the horror of Maskatron, when that villain removed his face and revealed the circuitry underneath I was just as shocked as the rest of America. I remember the excitement of the Bionic Woman. I added Jamie Summers to my harem of imaginary wives, along with Daphne and Black Canary. I remember knowing who Farrah Fawcett was because she was married to Lee Majors and not because she was one of Charlie's Angels. We weren't allowed to watch that show.
In the heyday of the Six Million Dollar Man TV show, I was around six to seven years old. One of the things that strikes me is that I'm positive we watched this show together, as a family. It was a prime time show that my parents felt comfortable watching with a six-year-old. Can you think of any prime time shows today that you would watch with a kid that young? Certainly there may be some, but I can't think of any. Even our favorite sitcoms are too racy and deal with themes just too adult for us to sit down and enjoy with our youngest son Alex. And now my three kids have this set of shows that they watch and enjoy that I think are primarily made by Nickelodeon or Disney TV. "Good Luck Charlie", "Hannah Montanna", "Shake it Up", "Drake and Josh", and "Wizards of Waverly Place". I've seen a few episodes just so I can know what the kids are watching. But Lorie and I do not sit down and watch these shows with our kids as family time.
Our cultures are different. Between the enabling technology and the show content, our TV influences are completely different. Two or more separate sets of developmental culture in the same house. How will that effect us differently than the culture I experienced as a kid?
To my foggy childhood memory, EVERYONE was obsessed with the show back then. All my school friends, my family, and certainly the approved licensed merchandise makers. I didn't have the Six Million Dollar Man lunch box. But I DID have the Viewmaster reels and several records for my tiny toy record player. I remember clearly the evening when we went to the toy store to get me the Six Million Dollar Man action figure. I played with that thing CONSTANTLY. I had that figure before I had any of my super-hero or Star Trek Mego dolls. It was just Steve Austin and GI Joe.
The best thing about loving the Six Million Dollar Man wasn't the comics or the records or the action figures... it was by far the school yard play.
We had entire afternoons where everyone was bionic. Everyone was running in slow motion, wrestling off giant Northwestern Sasquatch space creatures, slow motion fist fights, slow motion fake jumps, slow motion 'looking far across the playground'. And the sound effects! Everyone was going 'Dah nuh nuh nuh nuh' under their breath when they weren't humming the theme song.
The only drawback to playing Steve Austin was that you couldn't incorporate the Wonder Woman twirl-change to go from being ordinary mortal to super-powered altruistic knight. Heaven help you if you were caught doing the WW spin-change on the playground.
It felt like a shared culture. It continues to feel like a shared culture. Mention the show to anyone over forty and you'll see the look of recognition light up their face. And when I slow-motion run past my bosses open office door going "Dah nuh nuh nuh nuh", the light chuckle lets me know she knows exactly what foolishness I'm up to.
Now if I could only lift this car with one arm...
Thanks,
DCD
The show started in January of 1974 and lasted until Spring of 1978. Which means that part of the show's allure for me is it's pre-Robyn-ness. My baby sister Robyn was born in November of 1977 when we lived in Plattsburgh, New York. So it's not actually the fact of being without Robyn, but it's the idea that this was the proto-Dill family that loved the show. The early childhood stages of living in Texas, and not having an infant sister to contend with. We watched the show as a family. I do remember that. And ever time Steve Austin would climb into a plane my mother would check with my father for Air Force accuracy.
His answer fell into two ranges: "yep" and "nope".
I remember being jaw-droppingly stunned at Steve's fight with mechanized monster Bigfoot. I remember the horror of Maskatron, when that villain removed his face and revealed the circuitry underneath I was just as shocked as the rest of America. I remember the excitement of the Bionic Woman. I added Jamie Summers to my harem of imaginary wives, along with Daphne and Black Canary. I remember knowing who Farrah Fawcett was because she was married to Lee Majors and not because she was one of Charlie's Angels. We weren't allowed to watch that show.
In the heyday of the Six Million Dollar Man TV show, I was around six to seven years old. One of the things that strikes me is that I'm positive we watched this show together, as a family. It was a prime time show that my parents felt comfortable watching with a six-year-old. Can you think of any prime time shows today that you would watch with a kid that young? Certainly there may be some, but I can't think of any. Even our favorite sitcoms are too racy and deal with themes just too adult for us to sit down and enjoy with our youngest son Alex. And now my three kids have this set of shows that they watch and enjoy that I think are primarily made by Nickelodeon or Disney TV. "Good Luck Charlie", "Hannah Montanna", "Shake it Up", "Drake and Josh", and "Wizards of Waverly Place". I've seen a few episodes just so I can know what the kids are watching. But Lorie and I do not sit down and watch these shows with our kids as family time.
Our cultures are different. Between the enabling technology and the show content, our TV influences are completely different. Two or more separate sets of developmental culture in the same house. How will that effect us differently than the culture I experienced as a kid?
To my foggy childhood memory, EVERYONE was obsessed with the show back then. All my school friends, my family, and certainly the approved licensed merchandise makers. I didn't have the Six Million Dollar Man lunch box. But I DID have the Viewmaster reels and several records for my tiny toy record player. I remember clearly the evening when we went to the toy store to get me the Six Million Dollar Man action figure. I played with that thing CONSTANTLY. I had that figure before I had any of my super-hero or Star Trek Mego dolls. It was just Steve Austin and GI Joe.
The best thing about loving the Six Million Dollar Man wasn't the comics or the records or the action figures... it was by far the school yard play.
We had entire afternoons where everyone was bionic. Everyone was running in slow motion, wrestling off giant Northwestern Sasquatch space creatures, slow motion fist fights, slow motion fake jumps, slow motion 'looking far across the playground'. And the sound effects! Everyone was going 'Dah nuh nuh nuh nuh' under their breath when they weren't humming the theme song.
The only drawback to playing Steve Austin was that you couldn't incorporate the Wonder Woman twirl-change to go from being ordinary mortal to super-powered altruistic knight. Heaven help you if you were caught doing the WW spin-change on the playground.
It felt like a shared culture. It continues to feel like a shared culture. Mention the show to anyone over forty and you'll see the look of recognition light up their face. And when I slow-motion run past my bosses open office door going "Dah nuh nuh nuh nuh", the light chuckle lets me know she knows exactly what foolishness I'm up to.
Now if I could only lift this car with one arm...
Thanks,
DCD
Monday, February 4, 2013
Radios
I don't know anything about radios. I've heard about and actually met some collector's who's 'object of passion' is the radio and they go about collecting antique radios. That's not me. I didn't even have a car radio in my first car, as my sister is keen to point out. But I do love old radio shows from the 1940's and take pride in my membership on RUSC.com. And I definitely know about sentiment and attaching value to physical objects.
This is my 1940's floor radio. I got it for free. Lorie had been looking for something like this for me for my new comic sanctuary. So she jumped at the chance when it popped up on a freecycler's Yahoo group. In my jaded opinion, it's the only good thing that's come from freecycler's.
The radio is a Firestone Air Chief, model # S-7404-1, and was most likely produced in 1940. You can check out more about the radio at this wonderful website. (http://airchiefradios.com/year.cfm?year=1940) And I'm positive, without a doubt, that somebody at some point sat on the floor in front of this thing listening to old radio shows.
It does power on, but doesn't bring in any radio stations. That's just fine with me, as I have ZERO desire to hear modern radio out of this thing.
This is my Grandmother's radio. She passed away in May of 2011. I spoke at her funeral and it wasn't the easiest of things for me to do. I didn't really realize how close I felt to her until she was gone. Recently, I helped move my Grandfather into an assisted living facility and part of the job was to figure out what to do with an apartment full of stuff. Including my Grandmother's room, which had gone largely untouched since her passing. There were piles for Goodwill and piles of things that couldn't possibly go to Goodwill. I asked my Cool Aunt Melodee if she wouldn't mind if I took the radio.
It's a Sony Bass Reflex system, model # ICF-9580W, and was most likely produced sometime in the early seventies. The minimum research I've done leads me to believe that at the time it was sold, it was a top-of-the-line radio. I believe it, because it's a very solid and heavy piece. You can see more details about it here. (http://www.radiomuseum.org/r/sony_icf_9580w.html)
Last night as I was setting the radio up in the new comic sanctuary, I plugged it in, flipped it on, and tuned in a radio station. My son Ashton was shocked. "I can't believe this thing still works!" he exclaimed. There wasn't a doubt in my mind that this thing would work. My Grandmother would not have kept it if it didn't work.
That's the thing about my Grandmother. She and I seemed like polar opposites. She would look at this and think "it's just an old radio, why keep it". She would even see me as silly and wasteful for indulging in the sentiment. But... the fact that I can look at it and glean so much of her from it makes it useful for me. The fact that it was top of the line and she chose it. The fact that it still works and I knew that before even turning it on. And the fact that she would think it was silly that I wanted it. It's like she's there with me teasing me about it at that moment. The Phantom Grandmother on my shoulder.
Last in the line of radios for me to drone on about is this:
It's mine. It's the clock/alarm radio I got for Christmas in 1981 when we lived in Montgomery, Alabama. This is the radio that woke me up every morning from 1981 all the way to 2004 when it started to act up and not be so reliable. This thing collects dust like nothing I've ever owned. All those little tiny circles in the top may have looked cool at production time, but there's dust in there that I haven't been able to get out since early 1982; when I distinctly remember listening to Pac-Man Fever and Freeze Frame on this radio.
It's one of those rare belongings I had from my childhood. This being unique in that it's practical use is the reason it's still with me. Unlike my Superman bean bag chair, which saw the end of it's practical use in 1977.
Each of these radios will be displayed in my new comic sanctuary when the whole thing is set up. So come over! Check it out. Sip coffee from our kuerig machine, sit on my couch in the reading nook flanked by old time radio while listening to 1940's music from my iPod and reading old comics on the iPad. Comic book hipster.
Thanks,
DCD
This is my 1940's floor radio. I got it for free. Lorie had been looking for something like this for me for my new comic sanctuary. So she jumped at the chance when it popped up on a freecycler's Yahoo group. In my jaded opinion, it's the only good thing that's come from freecycler's.
The radio is a Firestone Air Chief, model # S-7404-1, and was most likely produced in 1940. You can check out more about the radio at this wonderful website. (http://airchiefradios.com/year.cfm?year=1940) And I'm positive, without a doubt, that somebody at some point sat on the floor in front of this thing listening to old radio shows.
It does power on, but doesn't bring in any radio stations. That's just fine with me, as I have ZERO desire to hear modern radio out of this thing.
This is my Grandmother's radio. She passed away in May of 2011. I spoke at her funeral and it wasn't the easiest of things for me to do. I didn't really realize how close I felt to her until she was gone. Recently, I helped move my Grandfather into an assisted living facility and part of the job was to figure out what to do with an apartment full of stuff. Including my Grandmother's room, which had gone largely untouched since her passing. There were piles for Goodwill and piles of things that couldn't possibly go to Goodwill. I asked my Cool Aunt Melodee if she wouldn't mind if I took the radio.
It's a Sony Bass Reflex system, model # ICF-9580W, and was most likely produced sometime in the early seventies. The minimum research I've done leads me to believe that at the time it was sold, it was a top-of-the-line radio. I believe it, because it's a very solid and heavy piece. You can see more details about it here. (http://www.radiomuseum.org/r/sony_icf_9580w.html)
Last night as I was setting the radio up in the new comic sanctuary, I plugged it in, flipped it on, and tuned in a radio station. My son Ashton was shocked. "I can't believe this thing still works!" he exclaimed. There wasn't a doubt in my mind that this thing would work. My Grandmother would not have kept it if it didn't work.
That's the thing about my Grandmother. She and I seemed like polar opposites. She would look at this and think "it's just an old radio, why keep it". She would even see me as silly and wasteful for indulging in the sentiment. But... the fact that I can look at it and glean so much of her from it makes it useful for me. The fact that it was top of the line and she chose it. The fact that it still works and I knew that before even turning it on. And the fact that she would think it was silly that I wanted it. It's like she's there with me teasing me about it at that moment. The Phantom Grandmother on my shoulder.
Last in the line of radios for me to drone on about is this:
It's mine. It's the clock/alarm radio I got for Christmas in 1981 when we lived in Montgomery, Alabama. This is the radio that woke me up every morning from 1981 all the way to 2004 when it started to act up and not be so reliable. This thing collects dust like nothing I've ever owned. All those little tiny circles in the top may have looked cool at production time, but there's dust in there that I haven't been able to get out since early 1982; when I distinctly remember listening to Pac-Man Fever and Freeze Frame on this radio.
It's one of those rare belongings I had from my childhood. This being unique in that it's practical use is the reason it's still with me. Unlike my Superman bean bag chair, which saw the end of it's practical use in 1977.
Each of these radios will be displayed in my new comic sanctuary when the whole thing is set up. So come over! Check it out. Sip coffee from our kuerig machine, sit on my couch in the reading nook flanked by old time radio while listening to 1940's music from my iPod and reading old comics on the iPad. Comic book hipster.
Thanks,
DCD
Monday, January 28, 2013
Horror Comics
For the most part, I’ve always kept my comic book interests narrowed down to the super-hero genre. Super heroes have largely dominated that particular medium, as it is the absolute best way to showcase their adventures. However, comics haven’t only just featured super heroes. There have been varying successes found in the genre’s of war, romance, humor, crime, and western. Much more so in the fifties and sixties than today, but there are modern day examples of these genres.
Aside from super-heroes, arguably the next most popular genre in the medium of comic books is horror.
As a kid in the seventies, I didn’t get a whole lot of horror comic books. In fact, only one comes to mind. Boris Karloff’s Tales of Mystery #65, with a cover date of December 1975. I was six.
I have no idea how this thing ended up in my collection. Even as a kid I had no idea how to file and classify it. As an adult, it took me forever to figure out what comic it was based solely on vague recollections of the cover. But I finally did locate it. And upon flipping through it, some of the imagery is memorable to me. Here are some examples:
Obviously, it wasn’t the kind of stories that strongly caught my attention.
As an adult, I grew to have a serious appreciation for horror movies and the horror genre. This appreciation led me to research any horror stories in my preferred medium of comic books. I found out all about EC comics and their headline title, Tales from the Crypt.
The EC comics have a strong role in the history of comics. Famous for quality and absorbing, gorey, gruesome stories, the comics themselves are absolute gems. They were hugely popular in the very early 1950’s, and they were the center of a storm surrounding comics and the idea that comic books were one of the primary causes of juvenile delinquency. The debates led to senate hearings, book burnings, self-regulation of the comic book industry, and the demise of EC comics. But I don’t want to get into all that here. It’s better covered elsewhere. If you’re interested, you can start here and here.
As great as the EC horror comics were, I never really found them all that scary. Maybe it’s because I was reading them as a jaded adult in the first decade of the 21st century and not as an eight-year-old in 1951. I heartily enjoyed them, but I didn’t find them scary.
In fact, I was under the impression that comic books couldn’t really scare me. I’ve recently learned different.
No discussion about modern day horror comics can be had without mentioning the Walking Dead. It’s a comic that my wife and I both enjoy immensely. Strongly adult, very engrossing, high quality stories told in the medium of a black-and-white comic book. The comic spurred a hit television show and is still being published monthly.
The thing that gets me about the Walking Dead is that I find a genuine surprise in every issue. Writer Robert Kirkman legitimately catches me off guard with at least one page-turn surprise per issue. The whole series is very disturbing for someone who’s most comfortable with super-hero comics of the seventies. At one stage in the series, it got to the point that I was afraid to turn the page for fear of what would happen next.
But this is a fear born of tension and anticipation, rather than legitimate fear. I was starting to feel a little jaded. It was like I was too old or exposed to find any true fear in horror comic books. I felt as if I had missed out. Is it possible for an adult who watches horror movies regularly to be scared by reading a comic book?
Recently I had heard about a series called Locke & Key from comic book publisher IDW. The series is written by a dude named Joe Hill. Hill writes both books and comics, and he absolutely deserves credit in his own right, so I won’t mention who his father is. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joe_Hill_(writer)) The Locke & Key series had been recommended to me by a few different sources. So I finally broke down and bought the first collection.
It was a winter afternoon, I sat in the quiet sun room while the kids were off playing in another room and Lorie was working on her projects. Maybe it was a combination of focus, solitude, and the quality of the material. But reading this I found myself to be downright scared. Hill crafts a tale involving an old New England haunted house, a family recently devastated by a serial killer, and mystical keys that open doors in ways that no key on my keychain is capable of. The series deserves every inch of reputation it has and I intend to buy the rest of the collections. There was one image in particular that I can’t shake. And I’m very glad that I was able to put down the colorful adventures of my favorite super heroes for an afternoon and absorb myself in this horror story without distraction. It was quite the experience.
And now, unfortunately, I’m thinking.
I’m thinking that maybe that’s why I don’t seem to enjoy entertainment that much anymore. The focus. Between my ever-present To Do list, and the needs of my very active family I have very little opportunity to carve out a time for focused reading. I hope that particular state of being is temporary. I enjoy the way things are now and live in the moment. But I very rarely sit through a modern TV show or a modern comic without thinking about all the many, many things that I could be doing instead. It’s only the movies and comics of yesteryear, the stuff I’m already familiar with, that can distract me to the level of actually enjoying my entertainment.
Or… y’know… maybe I just think too much. That’s Lorie’s theory.
Thanks,
DCD
Aside from super-heroes, arguably the next most popular genre in the medium of comic books is horror.
As a kid in the seventies, I didn’t get a whole lot of horror comic books. In fact, only one comes to mind. Boris Karloff’s Tales of Mystery #65, with a cover date of December 1975. I was six.
I have no idea how this thing ended up in my collection. Even as a kid I had no idea how to file and classify it. As an adult, it took me forever to figure out what comic it was based solely on vague recollections of the cover. But I finally did locate it. And upon flipping through it, some of the imagery is memorable to me. Here are some examples:
Obviously, it wasn’t the kind of stories that strongly caught my attention.
As an adult, I grew to have a serious appreciation for horror movies and the horror genre. This appreciation led me to research any horror stories in my preferred medium of comic books. I found out all about EC comics and their headline title, Tales from the Crypt.
The EC comics have a strong role in the history of comics. Famous for quality and absorbing, gorey, gruesome stories, the comics themselves are absolute gems. They were hugely popular in the very early 1950’s, and they were the center of a storm surrounding comics and the idea that comic books were one of the primary causes of juvenile delinquency. The debates led to senate hearings, book burnings, self-regulation of the comic book industry, and the demise of EC comics. But I don’t want to get into all that here. It’s better covered elsewhere. If you’re interested, you can start here and here.
As great as the EC horror comics were, I never really found them all that scary. Maybe it’s because I was reading them as a jaded adult in the first decade of the 21st century and not as an eight-year-old in 1951. I heartily enjoyed them, but I didn’t find them scary.
In fact, I was under the impression that comic books couldn’t really scare me. I’ve recently learned different.
No discussion about modern day horror comics can be had without mentioning the Walking Dead. It’s a comic that my wife and I both enjoy immensely. Strongly adult, very engrossing, high quality stories told in the medium of a black-and-white comic book. The comic spurred a hit television show and is still being published monthly.
The thing that gets me about the Walking Dead is that I find a genuine surprise in every issue. Writer Robert Kirkman legitimately catches me off guard with at least one page-turn surprise per issue. The whole series is very disturbing for someone who’s most comfortable with super-hero comics of the seventies. At one stage in the series, it got to the point that I was afraid to turn the page for fear of what would happen next.
But this is a fear born of tension and anticipation, rather than legitimate fear. I was starting to feel a little jaded. It was like I was too old or exposed to find any true fear in horror comic books. I felt as if I had missed out. Is it possible for an adult who watches horror movies regularly to be scared by reading a comic book?
Recently I had heard about a series called Locke & Key from comic book publisher IDW. The series is written by a dude named Joe Hill. Hill writes both books and comics, and he absolutely deserves credit in his own right, so I won’t mention who his father is. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joe_Hill_(writer)) The Locke & Key series had been recommended to me by a few different sources. So I finally broke down and bought the first collection.
It was a winter afternoon, I sat in the quiet sun room while the kids were off playing in another room and Lorie was working on her projects. Maybe it was a combination of focus, solitude, and the quality of the material. But reading this I found myself to be downright scared. Hill crafts a tale involving an old New England haunted house, a family recently devastated by a serial killer, and mystical keys that open doors in ways that no key on my keychain is capable of. The series deserves every inch of reputation it has and I intend to buy the rest of the collections. There was one image in particular that I can’t shake. And I’m very glad that I was able to put down the colorful adventures of my favorite super heroes for an afternoon and absorb myself in this horror story without distraction. It was quite the experience.
And now, unfortunately, I’m thinking.
I’m thinking that maybe that’s why I don’t seem to enjoy entertainment that much anymore. The focus. Between my ever-present To Do list, and the needs of my very active family I have very little opportunity to carve out a time for focused reading. I hope that particular state of being is temporary. I enjoy the way things are now and live in the moment. But I very rarely sit through a modern TV show or a modern comic without thinking about all the many, many things that I could be doing instead. It’s only the movies and comics of yesteryear, the stuff I’m already familiar with, that can distract me to the level of actually enjoying my entertainment.
Or… y’know… maybe I just think too much. That’s Lorie’s theory.
Thanks,
DCD
Friday, January 25, 2013
Super Hero Poses
My preferred method of entertainment, comic books, is an extremely visual medium. In fact, it's the essential core concept of the medium. And for decades the adventures of super-heroes were best contained in comic books because it was the only medium that could showcase their adventures with the special effects necessary.
Sometimes I'm caught off guard by how these images can stick with me. Most of all, images from comics I had as a child keep springing to mind.
For instance, the other day I reached for a towel and imagined my arm was stretching like Mr. Fantastic to grab the towel. Afterwards, I wondered why. As I do this kind of thing frequently. The answer is simple:
I was reaching for a towel like Mr Fantastic in Fantastic Four #185, 1977, as drawn by George Perez.
I find myself adopting poses or at least imagining poses from the comics of my childhood quite alot. Such as ring recharging and rhyming like Green Lantern in Green Lantern and Green Arrow #95, 1977, as drawn by Mike Grell.
Or fighting like Captain America from Giant-Size Captain America #1, 1975, as drawn by Jack Kirby.
Or swimming like Aquaman from Aquaman #57, 1977, as drawn by Jim Aparo.
Or size-changing like the Atom from Super Friends #6, 1977 as drawn by Ramona Fradon.
Or running like the Flash from Limited Collector's Edition C-48, 1976, as drawn by Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez.
Or swinging like Spider-Man from Amazing Spider-Man #184, 1978, as drawn by Ross Andru.
Or flying like Superman from Action Comics #459, 1976, as drawn by Curt Swan.
I slipped into a Superman flying pose in my boss's office once. She told me I looked like a football trophy. I was deeply offended.
I was disappointed in college by my course in archery as they did not teach us how to run with our face two inches off the ground while clicking our bow like Green Arrow from Green Lantern Green Arrow #96, 1977, as drawn by Mike Grell.
BUT... how many of you can say you've been on the ground and tried to fire an arrow without arms? I can! Just like Green Arrow from Limited Collector's Edition C-41, 1976, as drawn by Mike Sekowsky.
Comics being what they are, some of the images that pop into my head are a little less conventional and iconic. At several points through the week you might catch me mimicking my face exploding while in a wide-legged stance of awesomeness. Much like Wildfire from Superboy and the Legion of Super-Heroes #214, 1976, as drawn by Mike Grell.
Sometimes I want to run to my car with flat-fingered, cape swooping running style as evidenced by a certain caped crusader from Batman #290, 1977, as drawn by Mike Grell.
Oddly enough, I'm prone to doing some metal working just like the original Captain Marvel from Limited Collector's Edition C-35, 1975, as drawn by C.C. Beck.
Speaking of Captain Marvel, I can't pass any kind of metal disk on the floor or circle on the pavement without picturing myself tapping it with a foot in order to trap the Human Torch. This is thanks to Marvel's Captain Mar-Vell from Captain Marvel #47, 1976, as drawn by Al Milgrom.
At least I didn't pick up womanizing from Batman Jr (you read that right) from World's Finest Comics #233, 1975, as drawn by Dick Dillin.
Some moments I envision a sense of dramatic tension and urgency. Such as sometimes feeling the need to grab a stick and smack it on the ground with only moments to spare. Thanks to Thor from Marvel Team-Up #26, 1974, as drawn by Jim Mooney.
Or my need to summon the world's greatest super-heroes just like Hawkman did from Justice League of America Tempo books reprints; 1977, as drawn by Dick Dillin.
Back last Spring when I first joined Instagram (as Aquadcd), I tried to encapsulate one of the aspects of having these images floating through my mind all the time. Here's what I wrote: "I still walk around pretending my fingers are a little super-hero running and posing. A strange habit left over from childhood. I was at work one day walking along and my fingers were running and jumping and hero-posing down by my side. I realized that the guy behind me probably thought I was making rude gestures at him. After considering this for a moment, I realized I was okay with it."
So yeah, if you work with me you might occasionally find me springing into an odd pose or two while I think no one's looking. Hopefully it won't be like this one from Super Friends #25, 1975, as drawn by Ramona Fradon.
Thanks,
DCD
Sometimes I'm caught off guard by how these images can stick with me. Most of all, images from comics I had as a child keep springing to mind.
For instance, the other day I reached for a towel and imagined my arm was stretching like Mr. Fantastic to grab the towel. Afterwards, I wondered why. As I do this kind of thing frequently. The answer is simple:
I was reaching for a towel like Mr Fantastic in Fantastic Four #185, 1977, as drawn by George Perez.
I find myself adopting poses or at least imagining poses from the comics of my childhood quite alot. Such as ring recharging and rhyming like Green Lantern in Green Lantern and Green Arrow #95, 1977, as drawn by Mike Grell.
Or fighting like Captain America from Giant-Size Captain America #1, 1975, as drawn by Jack Kirby.
Or swimming like Aquaman from Aquaman #57, 1977, as drawn by Jim Aparo.
Or size-changing like the Atom from Super Friends #6, 1977 as drawn by Ramona Fradon.
Or running like the Flash from Limited Collector's Edition C-48, 1976, as drawn by Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez.
Or swinging like Spider-Man from Amazing Spider-Man #184, 1978, as drawn by Ross Andru.
Or flying like Superman from Action Comics #459, 1976, as drawn by Curt Swan.
I slipped into a Superman flying pose in my boss's office once. She told me I looked like a football trophy. I was deeply offended.
I was disappointed in college by my course in archery as they did not teach us how to run with our face two inches off the ground while clicking our bow like Green Arrow from Green Lantern Green Arrow #96, 1977, as drawn by Mike Grell.
BUT... how many of you can say you've been on the ground and tried to fire an arrow without arms? I can! Just like Green Arrow from Limited Collector's Edition C-41, 1976, as drawn by Mike Sekowsky.
Comics being what they are, some of the images that pop into my head are a little less conventional and iconic. At several points through the week you might catch me mimicking my face exploding while in a wide-legged stance of awesomeness. Much like Wildfire from Superboy and the Legion of Super-Heroes #214, 1976, as drawn by Mike Grell.
Sometimes I want to run to my car with flat-fingered, cape swooping running style as evidenced by a certain caped crusader from Batman #290, 1977, as drawn by Mike Grell.
Oddly enough, I'm prone to doing some metal working just like the original Captain Marvel from Limited Collector's Edition C-35, 1975, as drawn by C.C. Beck.
Speaking of Captain Marvel, I can't pass any kind of metal disk on the floor or circle on the pavement without picturing myself tapping it with a foot in order to trap the Human Torch. This is thanks to Marvel's Captain Mar-Vell from Captain Marvel #47, 1976, as drawn by Al Milgrom.
At least I didn't pick up womanizing from Batman Jr (you read that right) from World's Finest Comics #233, 1975, as drawn by Dick Dillin.
Some moments I envision a sense of dramatic tension and urgency. Such as sometimes feeling the need to grab a stick and smack it on the ground with only moments to spare. Thanks to Thor from Marvel Team-Up #26, 1974, as drawn by Jim Mooney.
Or my need to summon the world's greatest super-heroes just like Hawkman did from Justice League of America Tempo books reprints; 1977, as drawn by Dick Dillin.
Back last Spring when I first joined Instagram (as Aquadcd), I tried to encapsulate one of the aspects of having these images floating through my mind all the time. Here's what I wrote: "I still walk around pretending my fingers are a little super-hero running and posing. A strange habit left over from childhood. I was at work one day walking along and my fingers were running and jumping and hero-posing down by my side. I realized that the guy behind me probably thought I was making rude gestures at him. After considering this for a moment, I realized I was okay with it."
So yeah, if you work with me you might occasionally find me springing into an odd pose or two while I think no one's looking. Hopefully it won't be like this one from Super Friends #25, 1975, as drawn by Ramona Fradon.
Thanks,
DCD
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