ROM Omnibus Vol. 1

 I was recently a guest writer at the Collected Editions blogsite, reviewing ROM Omnibus volume 1. Here's a link. 

Sunrise on the Reaping

Scholastic Press published the latest Hunger Games novel a few weeks ago. If you like Suzanne Collins's work on earlier installments of the series, you should enjoy Sunrise on the Reaping. 

The book tells the story of Haymitch Abernathy, the drunken mentor of Katniss Everdeen, District 12's most famous victor of the annual Hunger Games. Similar in some respects to President Snow's backstory from The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes (2020), Haymitch's adventures begin with the love of a young woman from the Covey, that group of traveling musicians living on the outskirts of the district, both literally and figuratively. 

Abernathy breathes a sigh of relief on the day of Reaping when his name is not called, meaning he can continue his life as a bootlegger-in-training and helper to his mother and little sister. But the relief is short-lived as Capitol incompetence leads to Abernathy being named a substitute, sent off with three other young people on an adventure only one can survive.  

From this point, the novel follows an enjoyable, if predictable, trajectory: Abernathy and his fellow tributes are shuttled off to the Capitol, trained in various forms of woodcraft and fighting techniques, and eventually dropped into the Arena, the high-tech environment where they will battle to the death. 

Sunrise on the Reaping reminded me of Star Wars: The Force Awakens, not in any plot sense but because both feel like soft reboots of earlier versions of their respective series. While Sunrise hurtles along at a lively clip, especially once the characters begin to compete in the Hunger Games, it is also an exercise in déjà vu. Many scenes, inventive though they are, serve as callbacks to earlier moments (or, technically, later ones, as this is a prequel). This entry is not as original or as compelling as Songbirds and Snakes, which had the difficult task of balancing the characteristics that led Snow to villainy with some redeeming qualities to allow the audience to sympathize with him. 

Haymitch is a compelling character who is easy to root for. In keeping with the hangdog, down-on-his-luck persona established in the earlier books, the prequel Haymitch is the victim of almost preternaturally bad luck. Some of this he brings upon himself, but much is just a matter of unfortunate circumstances. As if being chosen for a slaughter-or-be-slaughtered scenario could ever be viewed as fortuitous. 

Collins is a sensitive writer, so the dialogue rings true for the world she has now invested five books in developing. She deepens the mythology while avoiding too many overt references to the other novels and characters. The various observations about how a state-run media can shape a story through selective editing are especially welcome—and timely. 

It's worth noting how Collins has used the plot kernel of people hunting people, a staple of pulp fiction as far back as Richard Connell's "Most Dangerous Game," (arguably the story more freely adapted than any other for radio, TV, movies, and other stories/novels), given it a dystopian sci-fi twist, and built an increasingly rich world around it. 

Spy vs Spy: The Big Blast

The newsstand collections of classic MAD material may fly below the radar of some fans, but I enjoy them. Whether this enjoyment extends beyond flipping through the pages to actually buying them ... well, not always. Still, I couldn't resist plunking down my hard-earned shekels for Spy vs. Spy: The Big Blast. Even though, at $14.99, it is assuredly not cheap, to paraphrase the omnipresent advisory from past Mad covers. 

The world of Antonio Prohias' black-and-white battlers is visually dense. These strips cannot be scanned casually. The reader must peer into them to determine Messrs. Dark and Light's antics and how their shenanigans pay off in the final panel. 

It took me a few minutes to adjust because it's been many years since I last perused the characters. Let's say I had to clean my spyglasses. Take, for instance, the first strip reprinted in this volume, from Mad #74 (October 1962):

One first notices the presence of a female spy, who often outwits both men, as the wrecking-ball gag in the top half of the page demonstrates. This single panel is much larger than the ones below and thus easier to decipher. 

In the gag at the bottom of the page, I'm ashamed at how long it took me to figure out that the female spy is dropping objects into the sleeping spies' upside-down hats and not into lampshades or ashtrays. And this is with the images reproduced in color, presumably making it easier to discern the headwear. 

(A word about this volume and color: Editor John Ficarra notes his dream is to colorize all the Spy adventures. This is "despite the fact that the entire strip was predicated on the literal dichotomy between 'Black' and 'White,'" he writes. While Ficarra characterizes the coloring as a universal good (calling S v. S one of the "clear winners" of the editorial decision to print the magazine in color starting in the year 2000), I'm not so sure. The stark contrast may have made it easier for readers to notice details like the above-mentioned hat trick. Coloring, especially on strips that share space with the one-panel gags, obscures the stage business that sets up the punchline. 

And those punchlines, despite their variety, are all of a piece. One spy or the other gets crushed, creamed, jolted, jilted, or annihilated, except in the early strips where both sometimes do. It's similar to watching a Road Runner cartoon—the viewer knows the Coyote is always going to get his, so the fun is in how the schemes unravel for him this time. 

Later strips in the Spy vs. Spy collection, where Prohias gives himself an entire page for continuity—or perhaps he is given the room (not sure how much freedom he had in this regard), work better. The larger size (see below, from October 1970) makes the business easier to follow. 

Mad has made this collection more appealing by featuring the work of Peter Kuper, who started drawing the Spy vs. Spy strip in 1997. His two-page spreads allow for much more panel innovation. Also, his strips are bloodier, as seen in the punchline to the July 2001 strip below. I prefer Kuper, as sacriligioius as this admission may be. Please don't put dynamite in my dresser while I sleep. 

Also featured in the volume are an illustrated tribute to Prohias by Sergio Aragonés and some terrific pin-ups courtesy of Nathan Sawaya, Bill Sienkiewicz, and others. My favorite is Darwyn Cooke's image of the two spies asleep, their methods of torture surrounding them, like a demented version of the children in Clement Moore's Christmas poem, with visions of sugar bombs dancing in their heads. 

The inside back cover advertises the Spy vs. Spy Omnibus. Not sure if it's a new printing or just a holdover from the last time this magazine was printed. 

The cover says this magazine should be displayed until 5/23/25. Get yours while you still can. 

Godzilla vs. Fantastic Four

Anybody who knows how much I love comics also knows how much I wear my heart on my sleeve where the Marvel Comics' series Godzilla King of the Monsters is concerned. It's easily the best series of my youth and firmly in my top-five favorite series ever. 

So I was excited to see the original 24 issues reprinted last year in a deluxe hardcover edition and even more excited to learn of a new six-issue series featuring Godzilla and some of the luminaries in Marvel's stable. The first of these is Godzilla vs. Fantastic Four. (Spoilers ahead!)

First, it's obvious the creators went all-in to make Godzilla an integral part of the Marvel Universe, in much the same way that DC did last year with Justice League vs. Godzilla vs. Kong.  This issue includes not just the Big G and Marvel's cosmic-powered quartet, but also Silver Surfer, King Ghidorah, and even a cameo by Galactus. 

The story takes place shortly after Godzilla's first movie appearance. Readers learn very early (page one, panel two, as a matter of fact) that the Fantastic Four tried to help Tokyo during that initial cinematic encounter but arrived too late. Now Godzilla is back, attacking New York City, so Reed, Sue, Ben, and Johnny have a second chance. 

This scenario sets the stage for an issue that is almost entirely action, exactly what most readers want from a pairing of these properties. An added wrinkle comes from the news that King Ghidorah, the three-headed hydra from Toho Productions, is the new herald of Galactus. Thus, it will require the combined might of the FF and the Silver Surfer, Galactus's former herald, to stop him. 

The story goes down smooth and is fun to read. Writer Ryan North has captured the dynamics of the FF's relationships during the Silver Age—the uber-intellectual Reed, the bantering Johnny/Ben dynamic—while modernizing Sue Storm to make her far more capable than she ever was in the early years of the strip. 

One big caveat—and it may be more a matter of editorial dictate than a flaw in North's script—is that nothing in the story makes it abundantly clear this is all happening in the past. Maybe Marvel doesn't want to call attention to the age of its most popular properties, maybe the powers-that-be thought a story spread across six decades would lose dramatic immediacy, or maybe the whole story-across-decades idea is meant to be more of an Easter Egg than a bonafide plot point. 

However, the only real indication I had about the timeframes being adjusted from issue to issue came from the house ad on the back cover: "Godzilla takes on the Marvel Universe across the eras!" The story itself takes a far more subtle approach: the bathtub-shaped Fantasticar and Sue's hairstyle are tipoffs that this isn't happening in contemporary continuity, but it wasn't until a reference by Ben to the Silver Surfer being exiled to Earth that I really figured out the timeframe. (Maybe I'm dense, too—always a possibility.)

Part of the problem is the artwork. It's fashionable in some quarters to slam John Romita Jr., and that's not what I'm doing here. He's a great artist, and pairing him this issue with inker Scott Hanna makes for some clean, easy-to-follow artwork. However, nothing about the visuals screams Silver or Bronze age. Sadly, not many artists from this period are still alive and/or working, so the best readers can hope for is art that replicates that past glory. And this issue, as fun as it is to look at, simply doesn't capture that era.  

Regardless, I'm onboard for all six issues. Here's hoping for a bombastic battle between Godzilla and the Hulk later in April! 

Batman's Strangest Cases

Unlike my previous tabloid-sized purchase, Batman's Strangest Cases wasn't part of my childhood collection. I had never heard of the book until DC reprinted it in March. 

The moody cover—"moody" if you consider comic book pages blowing across a darkened urban landscape to be sinister, I guess—promises "The Greatest Batman Stories Ever Published," a bit of hyperbole considering all five of the stories contained within were relatively new when this collection was released in 1978. Unusual for the time, the creators are listed out front, and it is a murderer's row of talent: Denny O'Neil (who writes three of the stories), Neal Adams, Len Wein, Bernie Wrightson, Frank Robbins, Dick Giordano, and Irv Novick. How recognizable these names were to newsstand patrons of the time is unknown. 

The stories are all Bronze-Age fun, situated in the period where Batman was receiving the serious treatment by DC, but before he became the grim-and-gritty poster-child of the late 1980s to today. 

My favorite story in the volume is the first, "Red Water Crimson Death," a team-up of sorts between the Dark Knight and Cain, host of DC's long-running House of Mystery anthology series. The latter stays in character throughout, breaking the fourth wall to narrate and offer sly asides to the audience, thus eschewing the caption boxes so prevalent in most mainstream titles of the time. It's an exciting tale that takes Batman from the mean streets of Gotham to the shores of Scotland for a real gothic-inspired mystery. 

The second story is the oft-reprinted first meeting between Batman and Swamp Thing, from the seventh issue of Swampy's own book. The moody artwork by Wrightson is the main draw here (no pun intended), as I found the story didn't age as well as I thought it would. The visual of Swamp Thing in a yellow trenchcoat and fedora evokes memories of the golden age of detectives, which even in the 1970s was fading fast. A house ad at the end of the story promotes the second issue of The Original Swamp Thing Saga, a series of reprints that were my initial introduction to Len Wein and Wrightson's classic series. The wraparound cover depicts Swampy's battle with the Frankenstein Monster and Werewolf surrogates from issues three and four. 

The third story in Batman's Strangest Cases is "The Batman Nobody Knows." According to the opening caption box, "three ghetto-hardened kids" have joined Bruce Wayne on a camping expedition in the woods, a scenario that in our jaded twenty-first century feels suspect on its very face. The kids each share their impressions of Batman as crimefighter, supernatural force, etc., culminating in an appearance by the real deal, whom the kids write off as Bruce Wayne in a not-so-impressive costume. A funny little short, this one serves as a segue into the final two tales, both of which are fairly oozing with gothic trappings. 

In "The Demon of Gothos Mansion," our hero sets out to help Alfred Pennyworth's niece, who has taken a teaching job at a desolate estate "one hundred miles from the nearest town." Little does she—or Batman—know that she has been recruited to help bring to life a demon, Ballk, at the cost of her own life. Batman ingeniously escapes a death trap. More escapades ensue. 

The final entry, "A Vow from the Grave," involves a group of displaced circus performers (what we'd once uncharitably characterize as "freaks") and an escaped murderer. As with all the stories in this volume illustrated by Neal Adams and Dick Giordano, this one is saturated—almost literally, given the incessant rainfall—with atmosphere, making them great candidates for the giant-sized treatment in this volume. 

One refreshing aspect of all the stories is the way Batman is portrayed as fallible, albeit within the boundaries of pulpish fiction. In other words, he's a trained fighter who will come out on top by the end of every adventure (this is never in doubt), but he is by no means invincible. In "Red Water Crimson Death," a loose step leads a common thug to get the jump on him, causing Commissioner Gordon to insist that our hero go on a vacation. "You're no good to me dead!" Gordon exclaims. 

Similarly, Batman looks like he's putting in some effort to dispatch bad guys on a dock in the Swamp Thing story, while O'Neil sees fit to add a caption in "The Demon of Gothos Mansion" to explain how Batman's defeat of two country thugs, armed with a sycthe and axe, is possible only because of "long years" of training. In Batman stories of the last few decades, such victories are treated as foregone conclusions, and our hero would never be tripped up by something as mundane as a loose step. The character is poorer for being divorced from his roots as a regular person in a costume and elevated to near-deity status in today's comics and films. 

A final observation is how much narrative ground can be covered so quickly in these stories. It takes exactly one page of story to get Bruce Wayne from Gotham City to a secluded country estate in "The Demon of Gothos Mansion," an entire story that, in 15 pages, is a marvel of economy. Similar efficiency is evidenced in "A Vow from the Grave," which has the same truncated page count. I know it's Old Man Shouts at Cloud territory to bitch about decompression in modern comics—and, listen, I love a lot of modern books—but it's so refreshing to read a complete story in just one sitting. 

Overall, I really enjoyed Batman's Strangest Cases, three of which were brand-new to me. For $14.99, it was a fun stroll through the Bronze Age. 

Batman's "Special All-Villain Issue!"

  

The book above is my original, well-loved copy of Limited Collectors' Edition 37, better known as the Batman "Special All-Villain Issue" from 1975. The tabloid-sized comic has followed me across six houses and multiple milestones—pre-teen, teen, college student, single guy, married guy, father, and now empty-nester. 

As proof of its heavy usage, see my attempts to complete the word search on page 52. I never did find "(Mr.) Roulette." 

Having the answers on the inside back cover didn't help because I'd already cut up that page to make the 3-D diorama. 

The image above is DC's recent reprinting of the title, exact in every way except for the updated price and some tiny type identifying it as a product of 2025 (and the obligatory line about the book being released in a time when racism was more prevalent, which explains why it's full of nothing but white people). 

And can we take a moment to admire the draftsmanship of the incredible Jim Aparo on this cover? Wow! 

As I re-read these 64 pages of golden-age goodness, I was amazed at how many panels were still imprinted indelibly in my memory, fifty years later. 

This stunt by the Joker, which led to a bus careening off the road and killing all the passengers, is still horrifying. 

The Penguin's appearance is probably my least favorite of the "5 Thrilling Batman Tales" in the book, but I remember tracing this panel a time or two because I liked the trajectory of Batman's punch.

The reprint of a series of Sunday strips featuring Two-Face (but not the Harvey Dent version of the character) remains memorable because of a conclusion at a drive-in theater and the finality of the last panel.

Boys and girls, crime does not pay!

Contrast that Two-Face finale with the silliness of this Scarecrow takedown by the Boy Wonder (and a Bob Kane signature on a panel that he probably never came close to actually drawing). 

And, finally, we have Batman roping Catwoman to end her latest caper. 

All in all, it's a fantastic collection of vintage Batman material. To my seven-year-old self, however, everything was fresh off the showroom floor in a book that I inhaled as part of my comic-book DNA. 

Reading it again was fantastic, even if I didn't try the word search this time. 

Chasing the Boogeyman by Richard Chizmar

 

I've tried to avoid spoilers in the comments below, but readers may find Chasing the Boogeyman better experienced with fewer preconceived expectations. Just sayin'. 

In Chasing the Boogeyman (2021) author Richard Chizmar explores the fuzzy boundary between reality and fiction via his main character, author Richard Chizmar. 

Boogeyman is a recent example of a narrative sleight of hand extending back at least as far as Dante's Divine Comedy—the writer inserting himself or herself into the story. For Dante, that meant a trip through Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven, accompanied by a different guide for each leg of the journey. 

Pulp writer Edgar Rice Burroughs did something similar. He claimed in the opening pages of some John Carter of Mars and Pellucidar novels that the stories were manuscripts delivered into his hands by various means. While Burroughs wasn't a fully realized character in these stories in the same way Chizmar is in Chasing the Boogeyman, the earlier author used the trick in much the same way—to create an extra layer of reality around a fictional world. 

In comic books, this technique has been used sporadically, as well. Writer Stan Lee and artist Jack Kirby appeared at least twice in The Fantastic Four, first in issue 10 and then in the book's third annual. The standard conceit over the years is that the duo was merely chronicling the adventures of the real-life FF in comic-book format. Writer/artist John Byrne pulled a similar stunt several decades later, in issue 262, when The Watcher summons him to chronicle the trial of world-devouring Galactus. 

Back in the world of prose literature, Stephen King famously inserted himself as a character in the Dark Tower series, which has a special bearing on Chizmar, who has collaborated with the horror writer on multiple occasions and wears his admiration for King proudly on his sleeve. 

If the technique of authorial insertion has a specific name, I'm unaware of it. Surrogate author is close, but that involves a writer who creates an avatar (often with a different name) and then fictionalizes the stories involving that avatar. Metafiction most often means characters with a self-awareness of themselves as characters, something that doesn't really happen here. 

What Chizmar does is more closely akin to Tim O'Brien's technique in The Things They Carry. There, O'Brien, a real-life Vietnam veteran, mixes fiction among autobiographical bits, to readers' delight and sometimes chagrin. (I can speak to the latter as a teacher whose students have sometimes been angry at how seamlessly O'Brien weaves truth and fiction. Despite the book's clear label as a novel, as soon as a first-person narrator named Tim O'Brien appears, they struggle to determine what is "real"—as I suspect O'Brien wants them to.)

Similarly, Chizmar's introduction drops readers directly into Boogeyman's plot, with no indication that he is already "in character." We are compelled to believe, even when a quick check of the book's spine still reveals "Fiction" and a perusal of the Internet reveals no information on a serial killer named the Boogeyman terrorizing folks in Maryland in the 1980s. A foreword by James Renner cleverly does the same. The web of credulity is spun early and often in Boogeyman.

Throughout the novel, Chizmar explores the realities of life in a small town. In this case, Edgewood, Maryland. As he writes in chapter one, "It's important that you carry with you a clear picture of the place—and the people who live there—as you read the story that follows, so you can understand exactly what it is we all lost." 

It's a gambit that almost cost him a reader. I found the first chapter interminably long, even as I recognized what Chizmar hoped to accomplish by presenting this idyllic scene of Edgewood's daily life. I suspect the nostalgia hits many readers in a sweet spot by allowing them to recognize their own pasts or wish they had been fortunate enough to have similar formative experiences. For this reader, at least, less would have been more, or at least easier to digest in smaller portions throughout the remaining chapters. 

That's a small criticism, however, because once the book moves past the opening chapter, it becomes riveting. As the titular Boogeyman finds and kills each new victim and the fictional Chizmar becomes more involved in the investigation, the pages turn themselves. Here, Chizmar weaves in the realities of life as a neophyte writer and publisher (of the well-respected Cemetery Dance magazine and publishing imprint) with the mounting dread felt by his family and other Edgewood residents. Adding to the verisimilitude are black-and-white photos of the major characters and sites in the novel, following most chapters. 

The book reaches a satisfying conclusion, with a few surprises that don't contradict the sense of reality that has been carefully built throughout the narrative. In short, it works. 

I've added Chizmar's other books to my to-read list. He's a good one. 

Untold Legend is back ... and bigger!

I've written before about how I find DC's revived tabloid-sized books irresistible. Seeing that beautiful art in larger dimensions enhances the reading experience, especially when the book was designed for that size (like the Superman vs. Muhammad Ali and Superman vs. Wonder Woman releases last year). 

But even when the stories were originally published at the standard comic-book size, seeing them bigger is a revelation. It allows the reader to become more immersed in the story and scrutinize the art in a new way. 

Case in point: The Untold Legend of the Batman, a three-issue limited series originally published in standard size in 1980 and newly given the 10" x 14" treatment. I've read this is the first time current DC management has re-released a book at the bigger dimensions that wasn't originally published that way, leading to speculation about what other treasures in the vault might merit this upgrade. Bring 'em on, I say. 

I first read issues one and two of Untold Legend back in 1980. The third issue, alas, never made it into my collection. It wouldn't be until years later that I ran across a paperback-sized, black-and-white reprint and read that last installment.

The Untold Legend of the Batman is a solid book, even when I discount the nostalgia factor at work. Writer Len Wein summarizes the Darknight Detective's career to that point, streamlining his origin so that it is easy to digest, even as he includes some of the more esoteric plot points of earlier decades—Bruce Wayne's father wore a prototypical version of the Batman costume when Bruce was just a boy, Bruce was the first person to wear the Robin costume while he was training to be a detective, etc. 

Wein could've phoned in a standard "album" issue of greatest hits, but he was always a more ambitious writer, so he also gives readers a mystery. An unknown enemy is destroying souvenirs and assorted bric-a-brac in the Batcave, and Batman and Robin must find out who it is. Each new destruction prompts a flashback, so eventually readers are treated to all the salient events that make Batman who he is. Or was—forty-plus years of history have since occurred. 

The art is top-notch. John Byrne, at the time a mainstay of Marvel Comics, pencils the first issue, covered by the inks of longtime Batman artist Jim Aparo. It's a pleasing collaboration. Again, the bigger size caused me to study a birds-eye-view image of the Batcave on page one longer than I ever have before. Ditto the splash page that follows—Batman pulling a shredded costume from a box. 

Sadly, Byrne hung around only for the first issue. But Aparo takes over all the art chores for the next two, so visual continuity doesn't skip a beat. As pieces and parts of Batman's past are systematically assaulted, our hero increasingly loses his equilibrium, and nobody draws Batman losing his shit quite like Aparo. 

The flashbacks are tidily arranged. Issue one covers Batman's youth and his tragic origin; issue two introduces Robin, Alfred, and select members of the Rogues' Gallery; and issue three deals with the supporting cast (the man who designs and builds the Batmobiles, Commissioner Gordon, Lucius Fox, Batgirl). 

The mystery, such as it is, is also resolved in the third issue, albeit implausibly. When the mystery villain and his motivations are revealed, readers are left to wonder why Batman isn't more upset that his memorabilia has been destroyed (especially his father's costume). 

Still, it's all great fun. Add seven pages of Batcave schematics, a gallery of the original covers, and house ads for other DC books of the time, and it adds up to $12.99 well spent. 

Books With Staying Power

I accepted a Facebook challenge a few weeks ago: "Choose 20 books that have stayed with you or influenced you. One book per day for 20 days, in no particular order. No explanations, no reviews, just covers."

It was an enjoyable exercise that made me think about titles and authors and what has given them longevity in my life. But it was hard not to comment on my rationales. So I decided to do that here, hopeful it might inspire others to do the same. 

My first choice is I Am Legend (1954) by Richard Matheson, a stone-cold classic I reread every few years. In very few pages—it's more of a novella—Matheson creates a world ravaged by a virus that turns most of the population into vampires. The protagonist, Robert Neville, is one of the few survivors. He lives a life of isolation, foraging for supplies and killing vampires by day, hiding in his fortified house by night as his neighbors surround the house and taunt him. 

I love the new twist on classic vampire stories, including a pseudo-scientific rationale for the creatures, the post-apocalyptic, urban setting, Neville's resourcefulness, and—most of all—the incredible perspective shift at the conclusion that makes the reader recognize that "normal" and "abnormal" are concepts that depend on majority consensus. 

I Am Legend has been adapted into several movies. The best is The Last Man on Earth (1964), with Vincent Price as Neville. Other attempts are The Omega Man (1971), with Charlton Heston, and a 2007 version with Will Smith, the first to keep the novel's title. 

My first edition of the book is the Science Fiction Book Club edition shown above, but I gave it away many years ago. I now have a smaller paperback that includes some of Matheson's short stories. 

The Illustrated Tales of Edgar Allan Poe (1975) features photographs from various American International Pictures adaptations of his work. The book contains no copyright credits, so the provenance is sketchy—appropriate for the stories of villains, scoundrels, and homicidally disturbed people inside. 

Upping the macabre factor, the book came to me through dubious circumstances. It's a former library book that was stolen (not by me) from the stacks. As I read stories like "The Black Cat" and "The Tell-Tale Heart," where criminals were revealed and sometimes met with gruesome fates, Childhood Me dreaded some type of cosmic retribution for not returning the book. (I still have it, as the ratty photo above attests.) Adding to the unsettling vibe is the graffiti of some young Rembrandt who added obscene comments to some of the photos. I didn't know what a "gronk" was until I saw the word issuing from Vincent Price's mouth on page 67. I used my context clues and figured it out.

As a kid, I loved Poe because he expanded my vocabulary. It was a struggle to figure out what was going on in some of his stories (the Latin at the start of "The Fall of the House of Usher" flummoxed me), but the plots were similar to what I was enjoying in various comic books of the time. Ironically, Poe's ambition was to be a great poet and magazine editor. The stories for which he is so famous today, and which make up the bulk of this and many other collections of his work, were quick one-offs written for money, always in short supply for the author. 

When asked to name my favorite short story, "The Cask of Amontillado" is often my answer. It is the perfect example of Poe's famous dictate about the "unity of effect" (see his Philosophy of Composition). Every incident, line, and detail in the story leads to the moment when Montresor buries Fortunato alive in the catacombs beneath the former's home. Why? "For the thousand injuries" that Fortunato has given him, although the reader never learns what these are. The ending also frustrates the hope that good always wins out over evil. Fifty years after the crime, Montresor still hasn't been caught. Not even the Latin at the end—In pace requiescat!—kept me from recognizing the badassery at work here. 

I had hoped to cover all twenty books quickly, but this is taking longer than expected. More titles and reminisces to come! 

Superman vs. Wonder Woman — a clash for the ages on all of the pages!

 DC Comics has found my nostalgic sweet spot with its tabloid-sized treasury reprints. First, it was Superman vs. Muhammad Ali in August, and now it's Superman vs. Wonder Woman. 

I missed both books when they were released in the 1970s. The distribution of tabloid-sized comics was hit-and-miss in my area.  Even when I found them, the price tag scared my parents—and me. For two dollars, I could buy five or six regular-sized comics. Since I relied on the charity of others for my four-color fix, I had to be strategic in my acquisitions. 

So I'm grateful to see these stories reprinted, in their correct size, at a price that—while considerably more than two dollars—is still far less than decent copies of the originals would set me back today. 

And Superman vs. Wonder Woman is worth every dime. Writer Gerry Conway and artists Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez and Dan Adkins take full advantage of the bigger size and page count to deliver an epic story. 

The plot is streamlined and simple. In 1942, the two heroes discover information about the top-secret Manhattan Project, three years before the historic atomic bomb test detonation in New Mexico. Their investigations lead them first to fight and then to collaborate to foil a plot by Baron Blitzkrieg and Sumo (the "last true samurai of Japan!"),  who are intent on stealing components of the project. 

Conway wisely leaves plenty of room for epic-sized artwork, and Garcia-Lopez and Adkins respond with breathtaking double-page spreads (like the one below) every few pages. Garcia-Lopez is a master of figure work; his Superman and Wonder Woman crackle with energy. Even in the story's quieter moments, the art shines. A two-page image of Blitzkrieg, standing on the coast of Mexico and staring out at a waiting submarine, provides a stunning view of the horizon, a distant fort, and swooping gulls. 

Some of the panels remind me of the work of Joe Kubert, filled with movement and emotion. The page below has a distinct Alex Toth vibe, especially the second panel of Diana Prince striding toward the elevator. Since both Kubert and Toth were master draftsmen, I have no complaints! 

For a story published in 1977, when many mainstream comics struggled with presenting strong, independent female characters, Conway's script is filled with empowering moments for Wonder Woman. In the page above, Diana muses, "Much as I love America, it is a country ruled by men ... and men are sometimes foolish ... blind to their humane responsibilities." Decades before the term "toxic masculinity" came into vogue, Conway appears to be describing it here. And in a nation moving decisively and tragically in that direction once again, the words struck a chord. 

Atomic dangers, fisticuffs galore, a sprinkling of social commentary, even a cameo by Franklin Delano Roosevelt: Superman vs. Wonder Woman has it all, wrapped in the conceit of a secret government dossier being made public for the first time. It's fun!  

And it occurs to me that the forty-eight years between the book's publication and today is greater than the thirty-five years between the story's setting and 1977. Not sure why that makes me pause, but it does.  

The Big Goodbye to Big Chuck

 A significant slice of Northeast Ohio history passed on Monday with the death of Chuck Mitchell Schodowski, better known as the "Big Chuck" half of the Hoolihan and Big Chuck Show and the Big Chuck and Lil' John Show. The programs were mainstays on WJW-TV for fifty years, give or take. 

If you grew up in the greater Cleveland area—including my own Stark County—in the 1960s through the 1980s, largely before the rise of cable TV, you recognize the seismic impact of Big Chuck. Friday nights were must-see TV long before NBC coined the term. Once the 11 PM news was over and meteorologist Dick Goddard had warned how much lake-effect precipitation other parts of the viewing area could expect, it was time for the opening lines, seared into our collective memories: 

Now, from high atop the Television 8 building

In the best location in the nation

On the shores of beautiful Lake Erie— 

It's the Big Chuck and Lil' John Show!

Or, if you were just a few years older, it was the Hoolihan and Big Chuck Show, with top billing going to Robert "Hoolihan" Wells, who starred with Schodowski from 1966 to 1979. ("Lil' John" took over when Wells moved to Florida, and the laughs kept coming.)

Here's the opening bit, complete with charmingly cheesy stop-motion animation that relocates King Kong from the Big Apple to the North Coast: 

The show followed a predictable pattern. The two hosts would introduce a scary movie and fill the commercial breaks with ad-libbed patter and silly skits. The movies were seldom top-shelf. For every House on Haunted Hill, viewers could count on two or three turkeys like Robot Monster or The Bat. 

(It appears turkeys weren't always on the show's menu. A perusal of the Internet Archive reveals they once showed The Exorcist. During a commercial break, Big Chuck held up a copy of Hostage to the Devil by Malachi Martin and began to expound on an allegedly true-life exorcism on the east side of Cleveland, prompting Lil' John to give him a friendly shove and remind him "not to get too heavy and out of character.") 

The skits were what made the show. They were often parodies of popular TV programs, and most outlived the original shows by many years: Ben Carson became Ben Crazy, Payton Place birthed Parma Place, and Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman morphed into Mary Hartski, Mary Hartski. Classified under "you probably couldn't do that today" were the "Certain Ethnic" sketches, like the laundromat bit at the top of this page. Big Chuck, Hoolihan, Lil' John, and the occasional guest star from the WJW news team wore many hats in these productions, all of which were punctuated by the distinctive laugh track at the end (a Google search credits Jay Lawrence, a Cleveland disc jockey from the 1960s). 

The show had a significant impact on me. I invited friends over on Friday night to watch the show and then sleep over. Both iterations—Hoolihan and Lil' John—were part of Friday night Pepsi and popcorn marathons that included CBS's Wonder Woman and The Incredible Hulk. By the time Dallas rolled around at 10 PM, the second part of the night's festivities—using a cassette recorder to create our own versions of Big Chuck and Lil' John—was well underway. We wrote cue cards, conscripted available voice talents (my parents and little sister), and filmed in such exotic locales as the basement and the bathroom (where a flushing toilet was repeatedly recorded with the microphone dangling over the bowl until my mom yelled at us to stop wasting water). 

Honestly, anticipating the show was often as much fun as watching it. It started the Saturday before with the new TV Guide, purchased by my mom at Sparkle Market.  Because Big Chuck and Lil' John was a regional show, it was never listed as such in the TV Guide. Instead, readers just had to know that whatever movie was listed in the 11:30 PM Friday slot for Channel 8 was the one. Of course, this was decades before you could look up The Killer Shrews online and find out it was a disaster, so all you had to go by was a one-sentence description and then six days of waiting to see if the movie delivered on that sentence's promise. 

I've never been a night owl, so staying awake until 11:30 after a long day of school was often a challenge, even if I took a nap, and making it to the closing credits at 1:30 or 2:00 AM was almost out of the question. Because of this, many of my memories of the show are wrapped in a semi-conscious daze, waking up for some scary parts of the movie or an especially funny Ben Crazy skit. Too often, I'd wake on the floor to the test pattern and realize I'd missed the entire show. Ugh. 

At some point, the show's softball team traveled to Alliance to play a charity game against the local firefighters. I was star-struck. It had never occurred to me, a child of rural Washington Township, how close Cleveland was, or that the larger-than-life characters I saw on TV could be real people who would show up a couple miles from my house. I'm not sure I would have been more excited—or dumbfounded—if the entire Star Wars cast had shown up to play ball. 

When the family bought its first VHS player—a big, bulky thing that doubled as a doorstop—I recorded a few episodes of Big Chuck and Lil John, but watching it in the day and fast-forwarding through the commercials wasn't the same. It was a "you hadda be there" type of show. And when grade school turned to junior high, I lost most of my interest in Big Chuck and Lil' John, which is probably pretty common, too. 

It wasn't until a few years later that I learned how many television markets around the country had their own versions of Big Chuck, Hoolihan, and Lil' John, and how the rise of cable TV and expanded network programming (late-night news programs, especially) sounded the death knell for so many of these low-budget, locally-filmed programs. 

Still later, I learned that Schodowski had ties to Ghoulardi, an early Cleveland-based horror host (real name: Ernie Anderson) who carved out his own niche in television history. Schodowski's nickname came from his hitting prowess as part of the Ghoulardi All-Stars softball team, according to the wonderful Turn Blue: The Short Life of Ghoulardi documentary, which covers Big Chuck's significant contributions to that earlier show. 

I'm sure many people of a certain age around Northeast Ohio are thinking about those days today, remembering a regional celebrity who left his mark in laughter. 

Omega the Unknown (2008)

Since Omega the Unknown was one of the seminal comic-book experiences of my childhood, I don't know why it took me seventeen years to read the character's revival mini-series, but it did. 

Written by Jonathan Lethem with Karl Rusnak, illustrated by Farel Dalrymple, and colored by Paul Hornschemeier, Omega's 2008 mini-series is collected into a gorgeous hardback that accentuates the reading experience. Cleverly designed endpapers and chapter breaks grow in meaning once the reader has finished the story. 

And what an odd story! In a nod to the original, short-lived series, written primarily by the legendary Steve Gerber with Mary Skrenes and drawn by Jim Mooney, this new iteration runs just ten issues and is jam-packed with weirdness. In a way, this is one of the most underground comix-style books Marvel has ever published, pushing the mainstream envelope in much the same way as the original Omega. That series felt like the precursor to Epic Comics of the 1980s and especially Vertigo offerings of the 1990s. Still, its impact was diluted by substitutions to the original creative team and, one suspects, editorial tampering that failed to make it more commercial. The 2008 Omega, on the other hand (pun sorta intended, as the main character fires energy blasts from his palms), was designed with a finite end in mind, and the same creators are along for each chapter. 

This "new" Omega initially follows the story beats of the original. Titus Alexander (Alex) Island, a homeschooled teenage genius, has his life upended when a traffic accident kills his parents. He then learns they are robots. Simultaneously, an alien hero—the titular Omega—makes his presence known. Omega shares a symbiotic bond with Alex, one that only strengthens as the teen is hospitalized and then released into the care of one of his nurses. He finds himself in public school, where a different facet of his education begins. 

The first issue or chapter is an homage to the original Omega. Even so, Lethem and Rusnak insert several new twists. The primary one is the introduction of the Mink, Washington Heights' own superhero, who is far more (and less) than he seems. Dressed in a purple-and-red costume, the Mink employs a small army of lookalikes and a strong PR game. Meanwhile, his headquarters houses a labyrinth where he sequesters his enemies, including a collection of robots who have traveled to Earth to infest the population with hostile nanotechnology. 

With each succeeding installment, Lethem and crew move further afield from Gerber's original premise, whatever that was. As they do, Dalrymple's illustrations become increasingly looser, moving away from mainstream superhero art to become something more akin to an R. Crumb production filtered through Dali. 

Dalrymple is a big part of the series' charm. His rendition of Washington Heights—the inhabitants, streets, schools, and vendors—is a delight. Readers learn that Omega is himself an artist; the hero's comic-book creations are featured prominently, necessitating a completely different style, rendered by Gary Panter. Similarly, the Mink's propaganda comics provide colorist Paul Hornschemeier with an opportunity to step briefly into the illustrator's role. 

The story gets out of control in later issues, where dialogue and captions are occasionally so thick they crowd out the artwork, and the authors' attempt to say something grandiose about marketing and franchises isn't given the space it needs to breathe. The final issue is a wordless installment, balancing the overly talky middle chapters. Here is where some exposition would be helpful to knit together some of the plot points and themes. 

But the loose ends may be the point. Just as the original Omega never offered closure —the book was canceled on a cliffhanger that was resolved unsatisfyingly by a different creative team several years later in the pages of The Defenders—this reimagining sends readers out of the book with some memorable images and lingering questions. 

It was gratifying to read comments in the back of the book by Lethem and Rusnak about how the original series impacted them when they read it as kids. Many of their comments reflect my own impressions and, I suspect, those of many who read Omega at a formative age. For me, the Hell's Kitchen setting of the original and its unflinching portrayal of student life in an urban public school scared the shit out of my eight-year-old self. Those parts of the series were much more compelling than any of the traditional superheroics; although I must admit, it was the Incredible Hulk, smashing his way across the cover of Omega #2, that initially drew me to the series. What was going on before and after that fight scene was far over my head, but it stuck with me. 

Revisiting Omega courtesy of this twenty-first-century revival was a lot of fun. The disadvantage for new readers might be the loss of recognizing how the reimagined parts mesh with the original. But the creators wisely realized they couldn't build their mythos entirely on a project that had failed thirty years earlier, so they crafted a compelling, self-contained world that offers a thoughtful meditation on friendship and collaboration, wrapped in a witty subversion of superhero tropes. It works wonderfully. I'm just sorry I waited seventeen years to find out. 

 

Blue Bride

Here's an oldie but a goodie from January 2008, reprinted on my sister and brother-in-law's anniversary.

The bride wore white trimmed in blue. Her dress was white, her skin blue.

The day last week when my sister and her fiancé were married, the thermostat at the Disney World resort — where the wedding was outside — read 37 degrees, with a wind chill in the upper teens. Somebody said it was the coldest day in Florida in five years.

If this was a fairy tale wedding, it was a Russian fairy tale – all ice princesses, helmeted heroes with frosty beards, and castles viewed through sheens of hoarfrost.

The couple stood on a hill overlooking a lake, the better to capture the vivid azure sky over the resort. It offered no protection from the wind, which tore off the bride’s veil and sent it careening toward the beach. The Disney wedding consultant, on hand for just such eventualities, caught up to it before it scuttled crablike across the sand and into the water.

At some point, the violinist took a break from playing “When You Wish upon a Star” — nobody could hear it over the howling wind, anyway — to drape his coat over my daughter’s shoulders. A caterer covered my wife and mother with white tablecloths.

“It wasn’t one of the top ten things you expect to see at your wedding,” my sister said later, speaking of the moment she turned to face the stalwart few huddled together for warmth and saw half of them bundled in linen.

At the couple’s request, the minister bypassed the Bible readings and kept his own comments brief. He asked the bride if she did, and she did. Then he asked the groom, who did too.

The weather being what it was, they cut the cake quickly outdoors but deferred sharing it until that night, at dinner inside a warm restaurant, after everybody had retreated to hotel rooms and hot showers and a strict accounting of toes and fingers. No extremities were lost.

Despite an uncooperative Mother Nature, there were no Bridezilla moments, no pre-, mid- or post-ceremony meltdowns of gargantuan — or any other — proportions.

It boded well for the future when the groom removed his jacket and used it to cover the bride’s bare arms. Later, the minister promised to be available later to give last rites to anybody who contracted pneumonia during the ceremony. To date, nobody has.

We spent the next two days in Florida, and the weather never warmed much. It clouded up one afternoon, then rained. The zipper on our suitcase split the morning of our flight home, forcing us to buy an overly expensive replacement from the hotel gift shop. (The people who call Disney the happiest place on Earth are the same ones who collect the tourists’ money.)

Meanwhile, the weather that last day was sunny and warm, with a high around 80 degrees. We experienced it from the airport terminal.

It was one of those vacations that everybody has sometimes, the kind we remember long after the bore of perfection blurs other travel memories.

Still, it was the week my kid sister got married, and the day we welcomed both a brother-in-law and nephew into the family, and that made up for the cold, the rain and the split zipper. It was still a fairy tale wedding with a happily-ever-after ending.

People who weren’t there will look at the photos and see only the clear skies and the wide smiles. They will see no evidence that we shivered and shuddered throughout.

Unless they notice the slightly blue tinge around the bride’s lips.

BLUE ÖYSTER CULT: 50th Anniversary Live in NYC, Third Night (2 CD + DVD)

 

The third and final release of Blue Öyster Cult's 50th-anniversary celebration is perhaps the one most keenly anticipated by fans because it includes a live rendition of Secret Treaties, arguably the band's finest album.

And 50th Anniversary Live in NYC Third Night (Frontiers) does not disappoint. From the opening chords of "Career of Evil" through the closing strains of "Astronomy," this latest iteration of BÖC rips through the Secret Treaties set with an enthusiasm that belies the individual members' age and instead demonstrates their musical assurance. 

It helps that many of the Secret Treaties songs have found a permanent home in the band's setlist for the last five decades. "Subhuman," "Dominance and Submission," "M.E. 262," "Harvester of Eyes," and "Flaming Telepaths" are all familiar, even to casual fans of the band's live performances. Sadly, most have fallen out of regular rotation on rock radio, which is less a commentary on the songs' quality than it is of the moribund state of AOR rock in 2025. 

The Secret Treaties material is followed by a smartly chosen second set, highlighting BÖC's eclectic catalog. While the obligatory tunes ("Burnin' for You," "Godzilla," and "(Don't Fear) the Reaper") are represented, so too are lesser-known gems. The band's collaboration with fantasy writer Michael Moorcock, "Black Blade," sounds terrific, as do "I Love the Night" and "Joan Crawford," from the Spectres and Fire of Unknown Origin albums, respectively. "The Alchemist," a standout track written by BÖC's latter-day jack of all trades, Richie Castellano, is also a welcome addition here, carried over (maybe for reasons of length?) from its performance on Night Two. 

Night Two's musical guests Kasim Sulton and Albert Bouchard are back for Night Three (Bouchard plays all three nights, as well he should), joined by Andy Ascolese on keyboards when Castellano is busy rocking the six-string during the aforementioned "Alchemist." Jules Radino on drums and Danny Miranda on bass provide their usual exemplary performances. 

But BÖC's two longest-tenured members, founders Eric Bloom on vocals and Donald "Buck Dharma" Roeser on lead guitar and vocals, deserve the most praise. How often has Bloom introduced "Godzilla," yet still cackles with maniacal glee? How often has Roeser played the solo from "(Don't Fear) the Reaper), yet still wrings emotion from it? At a time when many of their contemporaries are long retired, these two only talk obliquely of "winding down" at some indefinite point in the future. 

And if so, retirement will be well-deserved. Yet if they still find the inspiration to do what they do, even with less frequency, then every performance is a gift from them to the fans. Which is a long-winded way of saying that a live album and DVD are great, but they're no substitute for fans seeing Blue Öyster Cult live while they still can.