Advice to Bald Teachers

Always make fun of your chrome dome before a student does. That way, you own it and they can’t belittle you. Whenever a student or colleague mentions their hairstyle, join in with “me too.” For example, when a student says, “I’m getting a haircut on November 14,” say, “Me too!” When a colleague says they hate to wear hats because it messes up their hair, say, “Me too!” It’s important not to crack a smile when you say this. Stay stone-faced; this way, they won’t know if you’re joking or not. Maybe you’re delusional. Maybe you’re nursing a grudge. It makes lunch much more interesting.

Shave your head twice a week. Religiously. By this I don’t mean to make the sign of the cross or kneel down, but shave every Sunday and Wednesday. Or Monday and Thursday. It’s up to you. Because if you don’t, you will start to get annoying little stubbles that scrape like sandpaper when you pull shirts on or off.

Don’t get stingy with the razor. Replace it every three weeks. If you stretch it to four, the Gods of Gillette will make you sorry. The dull blade will rake across your noggin like a plow through a dry field, leaving deep, bloody divots behind your ears. Head cuts bleed like crazy, so when you stride out of the bathroom, acting like nothing is wrong, your spouse will react in horror at the sight of the scorched earth that is your brain pan. In the grand scheme of life, razors are inexpensive. Leaving crimson furrows across the virgin expanse of your head is costly.

Wear wigs with your costume every Halloween. The difference between your uncoiffed and wiggy self will be electrifying to your students, especially if the hair on the wig is shoulder-length. Always flip your wig hair back and forth like a supermodel. Halloween is all about wish-fulfillment, and this is the only time you’re going to have hair, right?

Always keep a photo from earlier in life when you had a full, luxuriant head of hair. Like the wig, it will amaze and frighten your students, in equal measure. Even if the picture looks more like a mug shot, it will remind your young charges that you were once a real human being who went to movies and concerts, ate at restaurants, and took walks in the park. This is before you became an educational ogre who sleeps under his desk on the weekends, emerging only to grade papers and assign readings before crawling back into your lair to gnaw on a protein bar and drink a V8 Pomegranate Blueberry, the only joys left to you in your twilight years.

Finally, remember to always polish your head. In much the same way that Rihanna reminds listeners to “shine bright like a diamond,” your head should be a bright beacon to all who enter your room, a sign that learning and fun—in equal measure—are about to occur. Maybe. If not, console yourself with the fact that at least you made fun of your folliclly-challenged self before the students did.

Spending time with the King

 As chance would have it, I had no sooner finished writing about the fiftieth-anniversary edition of Origins of Marvel Comics than I came across Jack Kirby: The Epic Life of the King of Comics at my local Ollie's. Priced at $6.99, it was a steal—and an appropriate counterpoint to the Stan Lee-centric history presented in the former volume. 

Writer and artist Tom Scioli has compiled information from multiple sources, including The Jack Kirby Collector, the Jack Kirby Museum & Research Center, and various books, to tell the story of Kirby's life from birth to death. Along the way, he illuminates the King's formative years on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, his time in World War II, and, of course, his pivotal role in the creation of the comic book. 

Like many other early comic artists, Kirby spent much time trying to do something else. Specifically, he wanted to draw a syndicated comic strip, seen as a more distinguished job for cartoonists. Again and again, however, his attempts were rebuffed or stymied, sometimes by financial and legal considerations. Inky, "a comic strip artist who solves crimes" was a collaboration with Joe Simon that "went nowhere" (p. 73). Sky Masters, a syndicated collaboration with Wally Wood, cost Kirby money because he paid both Wood and a writer, Dave Wood (no relation to Wally), to assist. Dave, according to the book, was late with the scripts, so Kirby wrote the strip himself but continued to pay anyway. 

Readers with some modicum of knowledge about Kirby won't find much that's new, especially in the section about the birth of Marvel Comics and Kirby's eventual switch to DC and then back to Marvel. These are oft-told stories, but what gives them emotional heft is "hearing" them in the artist's voice, as Scioli chooses to have Kirby narrate his own story. The continual disappointment, the non-adherence to contracts, and the lack of payment as Kirby's work is reconstituted for animated cartoons, toys, and even Halloween costumes are reflected visually by Scioli's visual rendition of Kirby: He gets older and less vital, even as his work continues to define the aesthetic of mainstream comics. 

At one point—jarringly, in this reader's estimation—the point of view shifts to Stan Lee for several pages, demonstrating the famed editor/writer's perspective of the birth of Marvel. These pages cover Lee's time in the service, the death of artist Joe Maneely, and his reunion with Kirby (with whom he worked at Timely before the war) in the 1960s. Why Scioli thought a book about Kirby's life needed Lee's perspective is unknown. 

The book does a great job demonstrating how Kirby's view of writing is unique enough that both his and Lee's view of "who did what" during Marvel's formative years can be correct. Kirby equated writing with plotting (which it is, in part) and insisted that the notes he left in the margins of his pages were proof that he shaped much of what Lee took credit for. 

However, comparing this marginalia to the finished product indicates that Lee (or somebody else) expanded on these notes to create the finished dialogue and captions. Indeed, much of the charm of these early Marvel stories comes from the interplay among the characters—the playful banter, the differences in dialects, and the ruminating in thought balloons that gave the Kirby and Lee heroes feet of clay compared to DC's perfect deities. This takes nothing away from Kirby (or Steve Ditko, also mentioned in these pages), who undoubtedly choreographed the action, designed the visuals, and fleshed out the plots. Yet the finished work appears to owe something to Lee. 

Part of Scioli's brilliance here is that he makes us understand how Kirby could believe he was treated poorly by Lee and the various owners of Marvel (which he was) even as we recognize that Kirby's conclusions may not be entirely accurate. Few creative endeavors between two people are entirely fifty-fifty; one collaborator undoubtedly does more than the other. In Kirby's case, he was doing more, yet more shouldn't remove Lee entirely from the equation. 

Kirby was ahead of his time, and therein lies his genius and his tragedy. The genius is evident in his role in creating the visual language of comics. His tragedy is that he didn't live long enough to see his contributions honored fully. At least he experienced some of the recognition he so richly deserved via the return of his original art, convention appearances, and awards. Yet the full flowering of this appreciation would come after his passing in 1994, which Scioli effectively illustrates in the biography's final pages by having Kirby's voice go silent while the encomiums continue — media tributes, movie credits, and an out-of-court settlement between Marvel and Kirby's heirs. 

This panel encapsulates the advantages of comics over video games and movies. It's so appropriate that it comes from Kirby.

Fans of the Golden, Silver, and Bronze ages of comics will enjoy this book because it name-drops so many creators from these periods. Hardcore and even casual Kirby fans will love it, too. I paid a pittance for it, but it's worth much more. Scioli has made a significant contribution to comics scholarship. 

Who Did What? Marvel’s Attempt to Contextualize Stan Lee

Movie fans know Stan Lee as the old man with cameos in many Marvel films. A few may know him as a comics creator, and fewer still may be able to rattle off some of the characters he worked on. Longtime comic book fans, however, recognize Lee as one of the primary architects of contemporary pop culture. He is lionized not only because he helped to create dozens of well-known characters — the Fantastic Four, X-Men, Incredible Hulk, and Black Panther among them — but also because he promoted Marvel Comics through TV appearances, magazine interviews, and nonstop tours of college campuses. His hype-man persona turned the company into a cultural force. It also made him very rich.

In recent years, however, Lee’s credibility has taken a hit. Comics fans and not a few artists and writers have started to speak up about what they see as Lee’s attempts to claim all the creative credit for himself. They point out Lee’s famously fallible memory, citing instances where his version of events in the evolution of Marvel changed notably from one telling to the next. They mention the significant involvement of various artists who created not only the visual look of the characters but often contributed essential plot elements. Chief among these artists is Jack Kirby, a creative dynamo who worked in the comics industry from its inception in the 1930s until his death in 1994. His decades of work at Marvel was shadowed by disillusionment. He watched Lee grow wealthy from their shared creations while he toiled in obscurity, earning only a modest rate per page. For years after his passing, Kirby’s children fought for legal recognition and financial remuneration. Finally, in 2014, Disney, the new owner of Marvel, capitulated, offering the Kirby heirs a settlement estimated as low as $40-50 million or as high as $100 million.

Pressure to recognize the diverse hands involved in Marvel’s creation has left the company in a difficult position. On the one hand, Lee is still the much-beloved mascot of the company, even six years after his death. On the other, his single-author stumping is increasingly seen as a liability, especially when it obscures the involvement of Kirby and others, including Steve Ditko, Marie Severin, Joe Sinnott, and Dick Ayers. One hint as to how the company will move forward in managing Lee’s legacy can be found in the fiftieth-anniversary reissue of Origins of Marvel Comics, one of the first full-length books to reprint mainstream comics and one originally credited solely to Lee, despite reprinting work by all of the creative people mentioned above.

A deluxe edition of Origins offers 39 pages of introductory material, much devoted to a more equitable retelling of Marvel’s early years. In one piece, editor Chris Ryall bluntly states, “Within the pages of Origins, Stan’s text pieces offer both his mindset and his self-mythologizing during this time” (p. 6). This is followed by a lengthy essay from long-time Marvel editor Tom Brevoort, who exhaustively identifies the creators responsible for each reprinted story. He also offers an apology of sorts, noting that “nobody who was working on these stories in the 1960s thought that their efforts would continue to be scrutinized into the coming decades” (hence the lack of precise creator documentation at the time) and that a major goal of Origins was not to provide a historical document, but rather “to present these early efforts by Marvel as being significant stories worthy of being revisited and documented” (p. 26).

A third contributor, artist Alex Ross discusses the “Marvel Method” of comic creation, where the writer provides only a rough plot summary for the artist, who then expands it into the required number of pages and panels. The writer then returns to insert the captions and dialogue. Ross diplomatically terms the title of “writer” in this situation as “an incomplete representation of duties” (p. 30), pointing out the many narrative choices left to the artist. Complicating the issue, Lee, who was also busy serving as Marvel’s editor at the time, often shared his plot summaries through informal conversations, with no actual “writing” taking place.

Perhaps recognizing that the previous three contributors had pushed the debate too far against Lee, the book’s editor gives the last word to Larry Lieber, Stan’s brother and an early Marvel scripter, who says the “anecdotes in Stan’s books are comical exaggerations,” and readers who use them to make a case against Lee “are just plain wrong” (p. 38).

One vital aspect of Lee’s collaborations with Marvel artists is how much the dialogue enhances the enjoyment of the finished work. Origins of Marvel Comics reprints eleven early Marvel stories starring seminal characters—the Fantastic Four, the Hulk, Spider-Man, Thor, and Doctor Strange— and, in each, the writing adds a layer of sophistication that the art, as dynamic and powerful as it is, cannot. Much of the joy of Fantastic Four #55, for example, comes from the interplay between the characters. The Thing’s insecurity about his looks (he is a craggy, walking desert, after all) leads to some comic exchanges between him and his teammates and provides the primary reason for him to engage in fisticuffs with the Silver Surfer. Much of the audience’s enjoyment of that battle comes from the interplay between the Thing, who talks like a Bowery Boys’ reject, and the shiny spaceman of the stars, whose speech patterns are pseudo-Shakespearean. None of this is indicated by the art alone but is a consequence of Lee’s dialogue.

Lee, in an attempt to cement his legacy and immortalize Marvel Comics, overstated his involvement and contributions on multiple occasions, including in the pages of Origins of Marvel Comics. The decision by long-ago editors to include only his name on the cover, alongside a pair of typing hands that insinuate he was the sole creator, helped to cement this misconception. In recent years, the pendulum has swung more toward Lee’s various collaborators, especially the underappreciated Jack Kirby. However, it would be a mistake to overcompensate for Lee’s bluster by minimizing the man’s legitimate contributions. 

Some sixty years after the birth of Marvel Comics, the origins of the various characters and the universe they live in are more complex than originally reported, and the only people who know who did what with any certainty have long since passed on. Marvel’s attempts to set the record straight are laudable. Yet the truth may be as sticky as Spider-Man’s webs, as ephemeral as the smoke from Dr. Strange’s magic, and as unknowable as the cosmic power crackling from the Silver Surfer’s fingertips.

Beware the Planet of the Apes trade paperback

 

With a blog called Monkey on My Back, I can hardly skip commenting on the latest Planet of the Apes offering from Marvel Comics, right?

Beware the Planet of the Apes promises "a new story set in the classic continuity" of the original films, and delivers on this promise. Apes fans will find a great deal to enjoy here. 

One challenge faced by writer Marc Guggenheim, artist Álvaro López, and color artists Alex Guimarães and Mattia Iacono has bedeviled all Apes creators—the short amount of time from the closing credits of the original Planet of the Apes movie and the end of the first sequel, Beneath the Planet of the Apes. Taylor and Nova ride into the Forbidden Zone at the end of POTA, and that's still what they're doing when the sequel opens. Taylor disappears and Nova runs, straight into the arms of Brent, the first astronaut to follow Taylor's path through time. From there, it's a breathless rush to the conclusion of the movie and—spoiler alert for a film from 1970—the complete annihilation of Earth. 

Unlike the Star Wars series, which provides an unspecified amount of time between installments, giving creators plenty of room to tell other stories of Luke, Leia, Han, et al., the first two Apes movies are a closed loop. Creators can't fit many—if any—new adventures into the mix. It's clear that Taylor and Company are the first talking humans discovered by ape society, so creators can't retroactively insert others into the timeline without stepping on what makes the first film so fascinating. Likewise, no room exists between Taylor's discovery of the Statue of Liberty and the activation of the Omega bomb for other stories involving him, Brent, or Nova. 

And, controversial take here, POTA stories that don't feature the frisson between 20th-century human society and the imaginary primate world don't resonate as strongly. It's likely why the TV show of the 1970s restarted the timeline with two new astronauts landing on Ape-occupied Earth and then riffed on The Fugitive by having them and Galen, a chimpanzee stand-in for Cornelius who was played by the same actor, Roddy McDowall, go from adventure to adventure each week. 

Guggenheim finds a clever workaround in Beware the Planet of the Apes by telling a story set just before Taylor's arrival. The plot involves Cornelius and Zira's first meeting with Nova and their subsequent trek into the Forbidden Zone to look for Zira's missing nephew, Lucius. There, they encounter another society of mutants whose psychic flashes foreshadow events in the first two films.   

One inspired piece of storytelling is the incorporation of original panels from Marvel's adaptations in the 1970s, written by Doug Moench, drawn by George Tuska and Alfredo Alcala, inked by Mike Esposito, Tony Mortellaro, and Dave Hunt, and colored by George Roussos. This allows Taylor and Brent to loom large in the proceedings even if they don't make in-person appearances in the timeline of the mini-series. 

A big plus is how cannily the creative team captures the vibe of those early films, making this feel like classic Apes material, especially in the earlier issues. Guggenheim includes spot-on banter between Cornelius and Zira and the stern admonitions of orangutan Dr. Zaius. López, for his part, nails the look of the characters while adding some new mutant designs. In addition to the welcome inclusion of the older POTA comics, López gets to draw Nova in a fantasy sequence straight out of another venerable franchise, one with a classic film of its own from 1939. 

The only drawback to the mini-series comes near the end, when of necessity the creative team has to hit the reset button in a big, obvious way so that the established continuity of the franchise can continue. Unfortunately, this gives the entire mini-series the resonance of a shaggy dog story. Again, not unexpected, but unfortunate. 

Planet of the Apes fans who love the original series (and those who love it and the newer films) will find the trade paperback of the mini-series worth perusing. Casual fans, however, can safely skip it, as it does not affect the main continuity of the series. 

The back of the book contains thumbnails, character designs, and variant covers. 

Blue Öyster Cult: 50th Anniversary Live in NYC Second Night (Deluxe Edition 2CD+DVD)

 

If you're buying Blue Öyster Cult's 50th Anniversary Live in NYC Second Night, chances are you aren't a casual fan. You're likely a diehard. 

Everything about this set caters to the lifelong aficionado of the thinking person's prog rock/metal band. The set, the second of three nights recorded at Sony Hall in 2022, opens with a complete performance of Tyranny and Mutation, the band's sophomore effort from 1973. Similarly, the first 50th-anniversary release last year featured live performances of all songs from the band's eponymous debut, while the third will open Secret Treaties, arguably BÖC's best album, in its entirety. 

The focus on Tyranny and Mutation in Night Two means some great, yet underplayed, songs receive a welcome spotlight. This includes the album's so-called "red" or second side: "Baby Ice Dog," "Wings Wetted Down," "Teen Archer," and "Mistress of the Salmon Salt (Quicklime Girl). Fans will also encounter "The Red & the Black," a reworking of "I'm on the Lamb But I Ain't No Sheep" from the first BÖC album. 

But the surprises don't end there. The second two-thirds of the set offers other rarities, at least for this listener.  From the band's commercial breakthrough album, Agents of Fortune, comes "Tenderloin," which benefits from guest vocals and guitars by former touring member Kasim Sulton. "The Revenge of Vera Gemini" features founding BÖC member and former drummer Albert Bouchard on the six-string and lead vocals. 

Of course, no Cult performance is complete without that triumvirate of radio-friendly tunes, "Burnin' for You," "Godzilla," and "Don't Fear the Reaper." The renditions here offer nothing new, but they don't have to, instead showcasing the band's never-waning enthusiasm, even in its fifth decade. 

Members perform like the well-oiled machine they are. Drummer Jules Radino and bassist Danny Miranda have the low-end well in hand. Richie Castellano, a triple threat on vocals, guitar, and keyboard, shines throughout, the glue that holds this modern iteration of BÖC together. Of course, founding members Eric Bloom on vocals and guitarist/vocalist extraordinaire Don "Buck Dharma" Roeser continue to do what they've done so successfully for so long—rocking the crowd with their finely honed skills. 

In his late seventies, Bloom's voice is understandably not what it once was, yet its sometimes reedy, almost whispery tone adds a new layer to the already creepy "Unknown Tongue," and his obvious joy as the spokesperson of the band is undimmed by time. The sight of a teleprompter throughout the set is likely necessary for the less frequently performed songs, given their lyrical complexity. 

And what else can be said about Roeser? Truly one of the industry's most underrated guitarists, he burns his way through solo after solo, with standouts "E.T.I. (Extra Terrestrial Intelligence)" and "Teen Archer." This, in addition to his lead vocals on many of the band's biggest crowdpleasers, make him a force to contend with. 

The only sour note is the inclusion of "Box in My Head" and "That Was Me" from the band's 2021 triumph, The Symbol Remains. Not that they're bad songs, but they were already featured on the first night's setlist, and their inclusion here bumps other worthy songs from that album. When will "The Alchemist," "Florida Man," or "Secret Road" receive their live due? On Night Three, let's hope. 

Overall, two discs of music and one DVD capture the intensity of the current group. A cover offering a new perspective on the original cover of Tyranny and Mutation could be a symbol for the band itself, offering fresh takes on so many of the songs in its storied repertoire. If rumors about the members' retirement from touring at the end of the year are true, these sets are the perfect way to say goodbye. 

Recommended! 

 

Cruel Universe #1

Cruel Universe is Oni Press's second offering in its EC Comics revival and is generally superior to the also-enjoyable Epitaphs from the Abyss. See my thoughts on the latter here. 

The science-fiction part of the revival, Cruel Universe focuses on the same sort of O. Henry-esque storytelling used in the Weird Science and Weird Fantasy titles of yore. In other words, each entry hinges on a surprise ending. 

The challenge is that an unexpected twist can't be unexpected when the reader expects it. Readers may not know exactly what form the twist will take, but they are hypervigilant in looking for it, sometimes to the detriment of other laudable parts of the story. 

Because of this, every story in this anthology would arguably work better somewhere else, surrounded by other types of storytelling that don't necessarily telegraph that "EC twist." 

The better stories here provide said twists but do so in a way that either still surprises or adds a secondary jolt that delights even if the larger one is more obvious. I don't want to identify these stories because that, in itself, is a spoiler. 

Generally, the work here is more even than Epitaphs from the Abyss. Readers will find: 

"The Champion" by Matt Kindt and Kano: Slaves are forced into interstellar gladiator competition in a story timed nicely to the Summer Olympics in Paris. Along the way, Kindt explores marketing, promotion, and celebrity. 

"Solo Shift" by Corinna Bechko, Caitlin Yarsky, and Michael Atiyeh: An astronaut stationed near a black hole is dumped by his Earthbound girlfriend on the same day he discovers a second spaceship with a beautiful but dead female astronaut aboard. Shenanigans proliferate. 

"Drink Up" by Chris Condon and Jonathan Case: A billionaire's search for immortality leads him to increasingly extreme situations, including an opportunity to find the mythical (?) Fountain of Youth. The billionaire's name, Edenspoil, might be too on the nose, but nobody expects happy resolutions, right?

"Priceless" by Ben H. Winters, Artyom Topilin, and Brittany Peer: A man is paid to experience the world for another geriatric billionaire (no relation to Mr. Edenspoil), but will the former's conscience get in the way of the job? This is my favorite entry of the issue. 

Each story in this anthology is fun to read, and each tries in its own way to extend the legacy of EC Comics, which are—to be honest—stunning to look at but not always a revelation to read. A piece by editor Sierra Hahn demonstrates the requisite passion for the originals. Hahn also singles out the work of letterer Richard Starkings and Comicraft in replicating the typeface font (Leroy) that made the originals so distinctive. 

My issue sports Cover A, a beautiful rendering by Greg Smallwood that perfectly captures the glory of ECs of the past. 

Two issues in and I remain optimistic about Oni's efforts. The company attempts to stay true to the past even as it appeals to current tastes. At the least, this issue was worth $4.99. At the most, it makes readers ponder bigger topics, including the employer/employee dynamic and contemporary consumerism. 

 

Superman Smashes the Klan

I must admit, I've passed on Superman Smashes the Klan since it was released almost five years ago, mostly because a perusal of the manga-inspired artwork convinced me it didn't capture the "look" of the 1940s, whatever that is, and the book's "young adult" label convinced me I wasn't the target audience. 

But a half-price sale enticed me to give it a look, and I'm glad I did. This is one of the most affecting Superman stories I've ever read, no hyperbole. Not only does the collection chronicle the main character's battle with the Klan of the Fiery Kross, a stand-in for the better-known and reviled "organization" that has reared its hateful head across several centuries of U.S. history, but it also serves as an inventive origin story for Superman himself. 

The adventure opens with Atom Man, a Nazi in a suit of armor, attacking the Metropolis Dam in 1946. He is interrupted first by Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen, stalwart reporter and photographer, respectively, of the Daily Planet, who attempt to stage an interview; and then by Superman himself, who makes quick work of the villain, but not before our hero is exposed to kryptonite. This exposure subjects Superman to a series of sporadic visions, images of himself as a red-eyed, green-skinned alien and, later, of his Kryptonian parents. 

Meanwhile, the story shifts to teenagers Roberta and Tommy Lee, who move from Metropolis's Chinatown district to the center of the city, following their father to his new job at the Metropolis Health Department. The teens make friends but also encounter racism prevalent against Chinese Americans at the time. When Tommy takes the place of the star pitcher on the local baseball team, the former ace's uncle reveals his Klan affiliations, striking terror—in the form of a blazing cross on the Lee's front lawn—into the family. This, in turn, draws Clark Kent, Lois, and Jimmy (the latter cleverly portrayed as a school peer of Roberta and Tommy) into the Lee's lives, as Superman and his alter-ego fight for the family. 

As noted earlier, Superman Smashes the Klan is a Superman origin story in disguise. The Man of Steel learns about his alien past (courtesy of the kryptonite exposure) even as the Lees navigate the prejudices in the community. Superman has suppressed his alien nature to fit in and be accepted by the people of Earth, yet the story speaks to the importance of acculturation over assimilation, a lesson that our hero learns in a dramatic fashion by the story's end. The narrative flashes back to Clark's own childhood and teen years, the ways he was "othered" by his classmates and community, and how he suppressed some of his more outre powers, such as heat vision and flying, as a result. 

With this last point, Yang does something that, to my knowledge, has never been done in a Superman comic: He resolves the power disparities between the Golden Age, Earth-Two Superman and the Silver Age, Earth-One Superman in the same character. In Superman Smashes the Klan, Superman has always had the ability to fly, see through walls, and burn objects with his sight, but he suppressed these powers because they would have exposed him as an alien and not merely a super-strong mortal. 

Yang also explores prejudices beyond the ones faced by the Lees. Inspector William Henderson of the Metropolis Police Department is a Black man, and Roberta and Tommy Lee's father is initially distrustful of him for this reason, demonstrating that even members of minority groups can be prejudiced against members of other groups. It's a small but significant character arc for Mr. Lee. 

The story is unflinching in its portrayal of the Klan. Characters at the bottom of the group's hierarchy are motivated by racial animus, but the group's leaders, particularly its horrifying Grand Imperial Mogul, are motivated by the financial gains that are a byproduct of hate. This comes as a shock to one of the lower-rung members—and perhaps to the book's readers, too. 

Yang's gutsy move is to allow the supporting cast more time than Superman throughout the book's 226 pages. This only works if the characters are compelling and their plight harrowing, and they are. 

Gurihiru—the collaborative name of Chifuyu Sasaki, penciler and inker, and Naoko Kawano, colorist—tells the story cleanly and clearly. This Superman has his roots in Joe Shuster's original, to be sure, but with a modern, slightly anachronistic vibe. Parts of the character and the mythos are visually inspired by the 1978 movie, particularly the portrayal of Superman's Fortress of Solitude. Nonetheless, it all goes down easy, even for this reader, who after he checked his artwork bias at the door, was quickly drawn into the visual world of the book.

By the last scene, I wanted to spend more time with these characters and see what happened to them next. Despite the young-adult designation, this is a book that readers of any age can appreciate, one that might be even more enjoyable to share between parents and kids or grandparents and grandchildren. It's something special. 

A text feature at the end of the book gives Yang the chance to talk about racism, Chinese immigration, the creation of Superman by Shuster and writer Jerry Siegel, and how a sixteen-part story from The Adventures of Superman radio show inspired this book.  

Flash Gordon and Epitaphs from the Abyss

Two venerable franchises were resurrected in comics in July: Flash Gordon and EC Comics. Here's what I thought of both. 

Flash Gordon #1 begins after the credits have rolled on most Flash stories. Mongo has been destroyed and Ming has been defeated. But instead of celebration and jubilation, the title character wakes up on a prison planet with robots for jailers. Judging by the length of his golden tresses, which make him look more like Robinson Crusoe (or maybe Oliver Quinn) than the clean-cut Gordon of old, Flash has been incarcerated here for some time.  

A flashback reminds our hero of his last battle with Ming, where he tried to stop the interstellar despot from bringing his latest scheme—an "unraveller" machine with the power to destroy planets—to fruition. Along the way, it appears the hero won the battle but lost the war. Later revelations, courtesy of a fellow prisoner, set up a situation much different from the typical Flash Gordon scenario. 

Still, writer Jeremy Adams and artist Will Conrad hit familiar beats—Flash's indefatigable confidence, Ming's irredeemable villainy, ray-gun battles (with sentient dinosaurs, no less), and hairbreadth escapes against impossible odds. It all goes down smoothly, with the previously mentioned uncertainties about Flash's overall situation adding a layer of novelty. 

The issue comes with a QR Code to download the #0 issue, which I read only after this first issue. I'm glad I read them out of order, frankly, as the unique in medias res mystery of the premiere issue is all but destroyed by the freebie. I prefer how the unraveller plot, well, unravels in the first issue, presented as a series of fragmented memories for Flash. I wonder how many readers of the zero issue found a well-told but conventional Flash Gordon story and decided to pass on the regular series, only to miss what was a more original narrative there? 

One of the problems with this current iteration of Flash, which applies to all versions of the character since his comic-strip debut in 1934, is that he is a one-story hero who must be locked in endless battles with Ming the Merciless to be interesting. Once that battle is over (or at least as over as any conflict in comics can ever be), no version of Flash I've read has made him interesting in other stories. The old adage that a hero is only as good as the villain is seldom as true as it is with Flash Gordon. 

It remains to be seen, then, if the current team can continue to differentiate Flash Gordon and his world enough to draw and maintain a steady audience with so many other choices to scratch the space-opera itch. 

Still, Conrad's art is stunning, as befits the property's long and storied list of illustrators, Alex Raymond and Al Williamson among them. And Adams's first issue story is intriguing enough to make readers hope he can walk the tightrope between giving readers what they've come to expect from the ninety-year-old character and still finding a way to make it all seem new. 

Flash Gordon #1 is published by Mad Cave Studios, written by Jeremy Adams, drawn by Will Conrad, colored by Lee Loughridge, and lettered by Taylor Esposito.  

Al Williamson is the connective tissue between these two reviews. The renowned artist of Flash Gordon did seminal work for EC Comics in the 1950s, along with a murder's row of phenomenal creators. 

Born in the late '60s, I learned of the company through a few reprints in the 1970s and constant references to Tales from the Crypt, Weird Science, Crime SuspenStories, and the rest by comics fans and professionals over the years. The Gladstone reprints in the 1990s showed up when I had enough discretionary income to buy them all. Hunter Gorinson, president and publisher of Oni-Lion Forge Publishing Group, current holders of the EC license, also discovered EC via the Gladstone reprints, according to a text piece in the back of Epitaphs from the Abyss, the debut issue in the company's revival of EC. 

Epitaphs is an earnest, although uneven, start. The premise here, Gorinson explains, is to create the kinds of stories EC would be publishing today if the line hadn't been the victim of censorship in the mid-1950s. The results, at least based on this first issue, are stories that wade as deeply into social problems as the old ECs did into blood and guts. 

"Killer Spec," written by J. Holtham, drawn by Jorge Fornés, and colored by Dan Jackson, is a familiar tale of an untalented hack who nonetheless believes he will write the next genius screenplay ... if only he weren't surrounded by idiots who fail to recognize his brilliance. When his roommate writes a brilliant spec script almost as an afterthought ... well, this is an EC story, after all. 

"Senator, Senator," written by Chris Condon, drawn by Peter Krause, and colored by Michelle Madsen, is the most overtly political of the four stories in the book. The story takes a horror-tinged look at politicians who abandon long-held stances in election years and speculates why this might be. The story has an X-Files vibe, especially in a late-night scene outside the Capitol where zombie-like elected officials roam. 

"Family Values," written by Stephanie Phillips, drawn by Phil Hester, inked by Travis Hymel, and colored by Marissa Louise, is the most disturbing story, which makes it the winner, right? If intruders broke into your house and forced you to choose between killing yourself or a member of your family, which choice would you make? Like the Saw movies, the story explores how stressful outliers can force people to clarify their values. Or not. 

Finally, "Us vs. Us," written by Brian Azzarello, drawn by Vlad Legostaev, and colored by Brittany Peer, is the story that leans into the old EC vibe of body horror the most. Unfortunately, the story is horribly confusing, with a vax vs. anti-vax controversy making it feel more dated than almost anything in the original ECs. 

Overall, the book gave me more of a House of Mystery vibe than anything from Tales from the Crypt. Nothing wrong with that, since the former was DC Comics' long-lived imitator of EC that stretched across many of the decades that Gorinson speculates about in his hypothetical "EC never died" universe. 

It's important to remember that even EC didn't become EC overnight, that some of the earlier issues showed creators struggling with the format and delivering a few clunkers along with the gems. If readers come to Epitaphs with this mindset, they may be more forgiving of a book that fails to encapsulate the best of the venerable company right out of the gate. 

Like the Flash Gordon title, I'm willing to give Oni-Lion Forge time to find its voice with this title and the upcoming Cruel Universe, which attempts to recapture the glory of EC's science fiction offerings. 

Savage Sword of Conan (2024) #1

 Savage Sword of Conan has a long and storied history among comics fans. It was the longest-running of Marvel's black-and-white magazine titles, featured thousands of pages of beautiful artwork, and is probably still the most faithful adaptation of Robert E. Howard's character into any medium. 

So Heroic Signatures and Titan Comics had some big boots to fill when they announced the return of the title. Happily, they've avoided most of the pitfalls and created a first issue that augers well for future installments. 

Here's what I liked, in no particular order: 

1. The price point of $6.99 is low enough to encourage the casual reader to give the book a try. 

2. Roy Thomas returns to write an introduction that discusses the aforementioned history of the book. Thomas also appears to be slated as the writer of some future issues, as well. Perfect! With the exception of REH himself, no other writer so gets Conan. 

3. The paper evokes pleasant memories of the golden age of newsprint comics. 

4. The stories themselves — a main Conan adventure, a Solomon Kane backup, and a Conan prose story — capture the essence of the characters quite well.

5. Nobody wants a PC barbarian, but writer John Arcudi gives us a Conan who respects women yet is still lusty. It's a middle ground that works well for the character. 

Here's what could be better: 

1. Max von Fafner's art, while in the main excellent, suffers from the decision (his or the editor's) to render the dinosaurs in some sort of ink/digital hybrid. Other commentators have noted that it took them right out of the story. While I won't go that far, the effect is jarring and probably would look much better in color. 

2. The reproduction on some pages is dark and muddy. I struggled to tell what was going on in some of the panels. Maybe it was just my copy. Again, if the intent was to print this on better paper or in color, the art would pop more. 

Other than these two concerns, it was a great first issue. I'll be back for more, by Crom! 

Teenage jobs

Image Courtesy Stockio.com

Here's a column from 2006. Maybe it will remind some folks of work they've done or conversations they've had with parents or children. 

My daughter and I are having a running debate over whether she should have a job while in high school.

I say “running” because when I bring up the subject, she runs.

An after-school job is just the thing to teach responsibility, I believe. Athletics instill valuable lessons in teamwork, but they are also one huge money pit. The hand is always out – for shoes, warm-ups, donuts before the car wash fundraiser, gifts for the coach, money for dinner on the way home from a game or meet.

Then there are the assorted costs of the teenage years that have nothing to do with sports. Dances, movies, trips to the store for supplies to complete school projects, retainers mangled beyond recognition by the dog – all keep a parent’s finances on life support, with a weak pulse and a dicey prognosis.

I don’t begrudge my daughter any of this. Like most parents, I wail and gnash my teeth over the vacancy sign in my wallet, but I still pay and pay and pay. (A friend once said that Dad comes last when the money train pulls into the family station, and that the boxcars are often empty when it comes time for him to take his fill. Boy, do I believe it.)

But as my daughter approaches the magical age of 16, I have begun to talk about the bonding experience of driving together from one fast food joint to the next, collecting applications the way a baseball fan collects autographed cards, and bringing them home to fill out, one after another.

Except she doesn’t want to.

Doesn’t want to drive from place to place, doesn’t want to get a job, doesn’t want to compromise her teenage years.

Suddenly, she wants to focus on academics.

This is a laudable goal. The only problem is that the words “focus” and “academics” have never before issued from her mouth in the same sentence. It doesn’t help that she utters them while staring vacantly at the television, a pastime where her mother and I must periodically remind her to blink and breathe. Maybe MTV is teaching her geometry, but I doubt it.

I think back to the succession of odd jobs I held during high school and I wonder how I could have fathered a child so alien to my own work ethic.

At age 14, my mom sent me to work on a mink farm. It was nasty, filthy work, and my only option was to do it. I waded through muck up to my knees and filled the animals’ water dishes. A co-worker once pulled an esophagus from a barrel of tripe and pretended a dead cow was speaking. I could never have learned that in school.

By age 16, I graduated to washing dishes at a restaurant, learning the ropes from a certified psychotic who relieved boredom by juggling steak knives and sucking his own blood when he nicked a finger or thumb. “Renfield” would often refer disparagingly to his “old lady,” who in my innocence I thought was his mother, until he referenced doing things to her and with her that weren’t part of normal mother/son relationships. Again, where else could I have picked up valuable street slang and smarts?

I thought of all the late nights spent hosing grease off various restaurant equipment, how dishwater would back up on the floor and seep into my shoes, leaving my feet smelling distinctly of shrimp or sirloin or whatever the day’s special might be.

I remembered the manager who tried to get me to smuggle steaks in the trashcan out of the building, the customer who hit me in the temple with a T-bone steak that he said wasn’t cooked properly, and on and on.

I thought I had learned a lot from all those experiences, but in reality, I only learned two things: respect for people who made careers of such work, and the knowledge that I didn’t want to be one of them.

The more I think about the weird assemblage of people with whom I came into contact, the less likely I am to want to expose my child to them. Because those people are still out there – juggling knives, hurling steaks, practicing ventriloquism with cow parts.

And I’m starting to think that “focusing on academics” isn’t such a bad idea, after all. Maybe she can get a job in an office, answering a phone or filing papers.

Maybe if I’d been smart enough to think of that, I might have avoided the squishy sound one’s shoes make when filled with dirty dishwater.

A sound which, incidentally, still haunts my dreams.