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.