« Epitaph: a memorial that usually lies about the one below. » — Unknown
Ah, those lovely Peter Pauper Press books! They once were far easier to find*, but time marches on. This one’s a lightly macabre old favourite from 1957, wryly illustrated by long-time New Yorker cartoonist Henry R. Martin.
It is prefaced with this caveat: « The following collection of gravestone inscriptions is hardly a serious historical one. Most of the items are genuine, but many are suspect, and a few are frankly contrived. In some cases genuine inscriptions have been somewhat altered, and the place names are not reliable. Scholars are therefore warned not to find fault; but all men — and also any women who choose — are invited to read further for a little ghoulish amusement. »
-RG
*confirmed — anecdotally, I’ll grant you — by a visit, yesterday, to Maine’s spectacular Big Chicken Barn, where I didn’t stumble onto a single, solitary PPP title.
« Then hear this, and never forget it. Any fool with fast hands can take a tiger by the balls, but it takes a hero to keep on squeezing. » ― Stephen King, The Dark Half
A couple of years back, I was reading, through idle curiosity, a ranking of Stephen King’s books*. I came upon the article author’s précis for King’s 1993 novel The Dark Half:
« The premise is simple and ingenious: a literary author “kills” off the pseudonym whose popular fiction has been paying the bills, only for that alter ego to take murderous, corporeal form. Within the killing spree that ensues, King offers some profound observations about the schism between high art and popular culture, while also exposing his own worries about legacy. » I like King’s perhaps a bit too cute allusion to Donald Westlake’s troubles with his better-selling, pulpier pseudonym Richard Stark — The Dark Half’s antagonist is named George Stark.
Anyway, that essential premise reminded me vividly of a harrowing comic book story I’d encountered as a child. Here it is — poorly reproduced, I’m afraid — and I’ll provide a bit of context afterwards.
The Devil’s Creation originally saw print in Beware! Terror Tales no. 2 (July 1952, Fawcett). Scripter unknown, art by Mike Sekowsky (1923-1989).On a small town kid’s budget, some US comic books were highly unlikely to turn up on my local spinner rack. Besides, I didn’t even know English yet. But these French digests (162 pages for 35 cents!) could be a godsend. This one came out slightly before my time, but I somehow landed a second-hand copy. This is my dog-eared Eclipso no. 9 (Oct.-Dec. 1970, Arédit); I was, within its pages, introduced to — besides Eclipso — Deadman, The Spectre, The Doom Patrol, The T.H.U.N.D.E.R. Agents and Mark Merlin.
Amid all this fine, but sanitised Silver Age fare, here was one short story that sharply stood out by its merciless brutality. I’m still mystified at how this seemingly random story, which hasn’t even been reprinted once in North America, so incongruously landed in this collection. Amusingly, Sekowsky appears elsewhere in the issue, pencilling the light-hearted A Day in the Life of Dynamo (from Dynamo no. 1, Aug. 1966, Tower). Say what you will, the man was versatile.
Notice how they took away his gun? Censorship was pretty strict in France when it came to publications for youth. In reformatting stories for a different size and ratio, this publisher’s efforts were often pretty dismal; this, however, was an exception. I daresay the pacing was even improved. You simply never know!
-RG
*Not having made it through much of his oeuvre, my favourite King is the non-fiction Danse Macabre (ranked his 51st best book). Fun fact: ill-advisely, the French have retitled King’s famous short story collection Night Shift (ranked no. 13)… Danse macabre. The real DM was retitled Anatomie de l’horreur (‘Anatomy of Horror’). Now I’m sure that didn’t confuse anyone.
« In old New York it was Turkey Mike, Muggsy and the Big Six. In San Francisco, Baby Bull, Stretch, and the Say Hey Kid. Then came the Count, the Hackman, Jack the Ripper and Will the Thrill. Barry and Jeff Kent, but a dearth of nicknames, that is, until… The Giants got the Panda. » — Scott McCaughey, “Panda and The Freak“
In those callow days of youth when I still cared about big league baseball — having lost interest in such matters when Montréal lost its team — the post season was over and done by, say, the 20th of October. Nowadays, with all the extra teams and trimmings, it just seems to go on and on.
I long for the days when only ball players and little kids wore baseball caps, to be honest. Ah, but the sport yet holds some fond memories for me. I recall most fervently the rather outré facets of it, fostered and amplified by the sport’s scads of iconoclasts and loonies*.
And while we’re on the subject, here are some highlights of Leaf/Donruss‘ 1988 card set Baseball’s Greatest Grossouts, illustrated by the busy yet ever-dazzling B. K. Taylor (Sick Magazine, The National Lampoon, The Muppet Show — he designed Dr. Teeth! — Sesame Street, Dynamite, Mulan…).
I’m mostly featuring the front of the cards, but the backs were also a treat. Love that grotesque wraparound artwork!
-RG
*splendidly — and catchily! — eulogised by supergroup The Baseball Project, featuring members of REM, The Young Fresh Fellows and Dream Syndicate. Four albums on, and their latest, Grand Salami Time!, may just be their finest hour. End of commercial, play ball!
« the escape from the black widow spider / is a miracle as great as art. / what a web she can weave / slowly drawing you toward her… » — Charles Bukowski, The Escape
This time around, here’s an over-the-top gem from ACG. No matter what anyone might think, I hold that the sloshed neighbourhood yokel bookending the tale is its star.
The striking artwork is by the mysterious King Ward.
I’d be inclined to say that the « In a lightning thrust… » panel surely wouldn’t have passed muster with the censors… but this was pre-Code horror, after all!
Incidentally, that bit about wasps and spiders, while essentially factual, smacks of your typical comic book oversimplification. Here’s the real-world lowdown.
It wasn’t the cover story — good thing, too: how much more of the plot could they have given away? — but said cover’s a nice one by Ken Bald (1920-2019), so I’m throwing in it. This is Forbidden Worlds no. 12 (Dec. 1952, ACG).
« … so I’d work on it until three or four o’ clock in the morning — that is the time to do Loevecraftian machinations. » — Tom Sutton (2001)
If you ask me, Marvel’s attempts at humour never came off*, being both strained and generally directed at superheroes, who are ridiculous in the first place. It’s like mocking pro wrestling — What’s the point?
Marvel did half-try its clammy hand at a horror humour comic book midway through the 70s, and while much of it looked decent, it was consistently unfunny. You can give it your best Will Elder, but it won’t stick if you don’t have that rare magic comical gene.
And while I’d love to say that Tom Sutton (1937-2002) had it, I’m afraid he didn’t. But Gerald’s World was a story close to his heart, to the point where he actually remembered creating it and having fun doing so.
« Right, and I did “Gerald”, who stayed up all night watching Fay Wray or something like that. I had fun with those! You know there were people who really didn’t like those things? » (Comic Book Artist no. 12, 2001)
It’s overstuffed, but it’s brimming with mood and solid craft. Take it away, Tom!
For a dose of real-life, depressing horror, read the definitive, late-in-life Tom Sutton interview, ‘An Odd Man Out‘. I’m afraid it’s unlikely to leave you swooning with affection and goodwill for the comic book industry.
And here’s Marie Severin‘s cover for that issue. This is Arrgh! no. 2 (Feb. 1975, Marvel). By issue five, the final one, Marvel were down to licencing 1954 Get Lost! material from Ross Andru and Mike Esposito.
-RG
*there’s always an exception, isn’t there? I’ll proudly vouch for Scott Gray and Roger Langridge‘s Fin Fang Four stories, circa the late Oughties. Recommended? You bet.
Hi there! Co-admin RG asked for some assistance with his Halloween count-down (admittedly, 31 posts in a row is a bit much), so I’m here each Tuesday for the month to come, a throw-back to the Tentacle Tuesdays of yesteryear.
As you probably noticed, we like supposed bad omens around here, and lean into superstitions, too. I consider a black cat crossing my path is as a definite stroke of luck, as is having one of those beautiful silky beasts at home at all times (we are blessed with one such beast). The anglophone world has long had a tortuous relationship with black felines. Harbinger of luck or malevolent pawn of Satan? Flip a coin. Nevertheless, in the 20th century black cats seemed to have had a charmed streak, and appeared in many postcards as definite auguries of good luck. For my own self, I am sympathetic to witches (though not to the point of actually believing in their existence) and also of anarchism, of which the black cat has been adopted as a symbol from the late 19th century. Whatever way you look at it, black cats are cool.
Here are some postcards from the very early 20th century, say around 1905-1906. Unfortunately I cannot say who R. L. Wells is, other than noting that they have a very district style and seem to have created a wide array of postcards.
Our very own silky black beast. My camera usually has trouble focusing on his blackness, so this is a rare decent — and most recent! — photo.
And the following postcards are by the equally mysterious H. M. Rose (or is my Google-fu weak as water, today?), from 1913.
For a great selection of vintage black cat postcards, affix your peepers on this collection, among which is found this cat, my absolute favourite for its strangely human teeth and dazed expression of sorrow mixed with euphoria.
« Master of puppets, I’m pulling your strings / Twisting your mind and smashing your dreams / Blinded by me, you can’t see a thing / Just call my name ’cause I’ll hear you scream / Master, master! » — Metallica
I’ve never been a Jim Mooney (1919-2008) fan, though he’s undeniably had a long and respectable career as a penciller (Tommy Tomorrow, Supergirl, Dial H for Hero, Omega the Unknown) and inker (Spiderman, Thor… and countless others). I’ve always found his work a bit stodgy and lightweight.
As these things usually go, however, if you keep an open mind, you’re bound to come up with exceptions, and here’s one.
While Atlas’ pre-Code horror comics were generally saddled with indifferent or nonsensical writing, the artwork on offer was often surprisingly wild. I mean… they even got straight-laced Joe Sinnott to go downright weird on a couple of occasions.
Here’s a short story that’s compellingly sombre, sinister and paranoid, and Mooney perfectly conveys its oppressive mood.
The ending is daft… and at the same time, inspired lunacy that takes it to another level. While I’m drawing from a 1974 reprint, here’s the cover from its original publication, Spellbound no. 13 (March 1953, Atlas); cover pencilled and inked by Carl Burgos, colours by Stan Goldberg. Working in the Goodman Family salt mines (in this case, the Humorama line of ‘girlie’ digests, at ten bucks a cartoon, writing included), Mooney was probably more in his element, nimbly bridging the cartoonish and more academic semi-realism, not a common skill!
« They wanted me to do something that would be absolutely horrific, and so I was thinking silly monsters and putting all kinds of political twists on it. Then I began thinking, what is really, really scary and hasn’t been faced? I thought of being a kid. » — Gahan Wilson
Gahan Wilson (1930-2019), who else? I’ll gladly confess that it’s always a bit daunting to pick the opening and closing salvos of a countdown… especially the opener.
I’m fairly confident there’ll be no controversy as to my decision to bestow the inaugural spot to one of Mr. Gahan Wilson’s creations.
After all, Gahan was truly one (along with colleagues Addams and Gorey, to name but an obvious pair) of those gnarly souls — bless and/or curse them all — who made each day Hallowe’en… in the finest way.
« Remember how confusing it was, being a little kid? Remember trying to make sense of the weird rules grownups always made you follow, and how you always guessed wrong and which ones they’d figure were really important?Remember how small you were and how brave you had to be to get through it all? »
Oh, what the heck. Here’s a bonus strip, still a perfect fit for the occasion:
Incidentally, for those entirely unfamiliar with it, Nuts was Mr. Wilson’s first sequential strip, and it was published in the pages of The National Lampoon between 1972 and 1986.
… I bring you a of ‘clip show‘ of sorts: excerpts from past entries of this blog, but with a slight twist. For, unlike your textbook clip show, I’ll be drawing from episodes you’re probably unfamiliar with. After all, while this is my 500th piece, this is our blog’s eight hundred and fortieth: quite enough of a tangle to get hopelessly disoriented in.
I have culled from the earliest days of WOT?, when we had precious few readers — each one precious! Five picks from the lot seems a reasonable ratio: neatly one per hundred.
While many of our posts from those days have since, one way or another, found their audience (or vice versa), these dispatches have languished in obscurity — deservedly or not, who can say?
Here they are, in chronological order and everything:
This one was a gathering of English fantasy artist Patrick Woodroffe (1940-2014)’s covers for Warren Magazines. You may have seen his fabulous cover for Judas Priest’s 1976 LP Sad Wings of Destiny.
A ghoulish and gloriously fitting backup feature for Pat Mills’ unhinged Death Race 2020 (1995-96, Roger Corman’s Cosmic Comics). I collected them all so you don’t have to!
Incidentally, this is all you’ll be seeing of me this month — it’s not a case of burnout: I’m just furiously cobbling together this year’s Hallowe’en Countdown, and that takes time. Thanks for your patience and loyalty, and see you in October!
I hesitated about doing a post about Lucy and Sophie Say Good Bye because it seemed too obvious. Then I thought, obvious to whom? Surely a comic from 1905 can’t be all that widely recognized, a century hence. Besides, there’s a cool little bonus: the mystery surrounding the artist of this strip.
Some think that this mystery has been solved. Case in point, in 2021, the intrepid Eddie Campbell and Ron Evry of Mister Ron’s Basement made great use of their eagle eyes and spotted the similarity between Lucy and Sophie Say Goodbye and Cholly Cashcaller, both strips running almost concurrently in The Chicago Tribune. When Campbell pinged Barnacle Press, its sleuthing team (after some tracking down signatures, styles, and historical details) decided that the heretofore anonymous author was Robert James Campbell (1873-1938)*. Read the story here.
Chapter closed? Not quite. Kevin Cooley argues (and quite persuasively**) that this was a hasty and incorrect assumption, and that the artist is actually George O. Frink (1874? – 1932). Given that people far more erudite than I have spent years studying this topic, I’m resolutely staying away from having an opinion on the subject, but it’s all rather fascinating. Suffice it to say that Cooley has written a highly perceptive analysis of this strip and I highly recommend reading it (here)…. but that I tend to trust Campbell’s judgment, given that he’s not only an excellent cartoonist, but also a comics historian.
Has this strip gained traction and garnered interest in recent years because lay people (as opposed to comic historians) are titillated by the idea of two women kissing in a newspaper strip from the very early 20th century? That goes without saying. Yet this historical importance doesn’t take anything away from the art or humour of this strip. Besides, most people will be able to relate to the feeling of being s̶o̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶l̶o̶v̶e̶such close friends that the outside world fades into nonsignificance, even as horses collide, waves crash, and a crowd gathers.
I picked some of my favourites, but you can see more of these over at Barnacle Press.
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As you may have noticed, Lucy is often bodily torn away from her companion by some passing contraption, be it a boat or a montgolfière . As mentioned earlier, Cooley wrote a detailed analysis on the subject, from which I will now quote:
« Lucy and Sophie’s fears are not in vain. One of these threats is ultimately carried out, and it cannot be dodged, ignored, or avoided. In the strip’s final installment on October 15th, 1905, the lovers are carted off by sinister mustachioed men in brown trench coats. “Say we got two crazy ones send the wagon,” says one. The women are wrested into separate streetcars and held apart as they say their final goodbye. A young man in typical newsboy hat, papers and bell tucked under his arm, says “Gee dats der finish.” »
~ ds
* I don’t know how many Campbells are running around this world, but presumably quite a few.
** Speaking of being persuasive, I’d be remiss in not including part of Campbell’s rebuttal, at least in part — read the full thing in the comments section of The Lucy and Sophie Cartoonist – Another Look (Updated with Part Two – A George Frink Profile). Co-admin RG (himself a cartoonist) has often argued that artists have a different, deeper perception of other artists (as compared to those not at all versed in the craft/art of comics), enabling them to recognize someone’s style, even if it’s, say, subtle pencils buried under someone else’s forceful inking. Campbell’s point is similar, I think.
« I’ve been thinking about this strange affair today and it occurs to me now that K. Cooley doesn’t understand that there are some who are well versed in the study of cartoon art who can recognize an artist’s voice, or personality, by looking at a comic, the way one recognizes a friend’s voice on the telephone. Being told a more or less persuasive story doesn’t change the situation that the Frink comic he shows, with its depth of field and crackly angles and energy, all typical of Frink, is incompatible with the balloony lines and easy-going patterns of the Lucy and Sophie compositions. There are two distinct artistic personalities at work, one of whom is Frink and the other of whom shares a multitude of qualities with Robert Campbell, who drew many pretty ladies adorning the Sunday magazine pages of the same issues of the newspaper, all of whom had a tendency to look exactly like Lucy and Sophie. “One” does not ascribe works according to artists’ complicated backstories, or at least not until the primary issue of the looks of things have been analyzed. »
Who's Out There? 