We're Not In Hyrkania Anymore, Toto

Dynamite Entertainment reportedly solicited nearly 100,000 copies of it and you, the reader, are the ones who benefit at a quarter cover price.  Yup, a mere quarter!  I was barely old enough to read comic books the last time they cost that much on average.  The pricey manufacturing of standard publishing these days, wow...only Free Comic Book Day and Halloween Comic Fest are ballsier marketing ploys.

For the fourth time, Dynamite is relaunching Red Sonja and this time, there's a catch.

Jason Voorhees...the freaking Muppets...now the She-Devil with a Sword...

The Village is in for it...Soho...well, she's gotten more enlightened (not to mention hornier than the AVN expo) under the pen of Gail Simone, so you never know.  Manhattan is where Red Sonja dwells in 2017 and given this preview of Issue Number Zero which dropped this past Wednesday, it's either going to be the romp of the year or a distant anecdote Sonja fans are going to mumble amidst themselves within reach of ibuprofen bottles, "Remember when they slung her into New York?  Oy."

Now this barbarian fish out of water trope has been played before, which no doubt gave writer Amy Chu (also writing Dynamite's Kiss  book along with having done Poison Ivy stories for DC) the idea of violating Red Sonja in ways not even King Kull cosplays have dreamed up.  Twice Conan was hoisted out of his Hyperborea domain and dropped into the big metropolis via Marvel's What If  series.  Let's not forget Red Sonja herself swung her broadsword side-by-side with Spider-man in Marvel Team-Up  # 79.  Those were weird, implausible but hellafun stories that defied convention and made the genre more fun.  Spidey and John Belushi, anyone?

Today's audiences have read it all and they know the canons. Expectations to go where their favorite characters have never gone before is now a mandate, but with a fine line drawn.  That makes it rough on contemporary writers.  Chu has her entire reputation staked on this project and I'm going to avoid a full review this time because I am willing to see where this wacky, if borrowed concept goes.

I'll confess that Red Sonja and Batgirl are my geek boy fantasy women.  I had no qualms with the direction Dynamite took with Marguerite Bennett's brief run but it was  brief and we know why.  The imprint reacted to complaints from a large volume of female readers voicing out against the scantily-clad presentations of their flagship characters, Red Sonja, Vampirella, Sheena and Dejah Thoris.  The appeasement Dynamite granted was noble, if ultimately fruitless as readers slowly shied away.  Call men shallow, we deserve it.  We want we want, and a looksee past the chain mail is ever-present on our minds while rooting on Sonja's nearly-unbeatable sword prowess.

Carlos Gomez gets back to the basics in this reboot of Sonja, which means geek boys (and girls who may apply) are served the goodies again.  I still say Sonja has never been depicted sexier than Dynamite's Red Sonja vs. Thulsa Doom  miniseries, but the new run is designed to titillate once again.  This while rudely shoving our redheaded savage into modern times via a vengeful spell cast upon her by recent era PITA sorcerer, Kulan Gath.  It would seem not even Sonja's goddess, Scathach, can help her navigate through this mess.

I eagerly await Sonja's confrontation with the Garment District.  If she doesn't drop into McSorley's for a pint and a good old-fashioned Irish pub scrap, Chu and Dynamite will have missed out on a golden opportunity.  If Sonja finds a floating hockey mask in the sewers, however, I'm out.

Some Elves Have Better Taste Than Others

When you have a little one, you have to go the extra mile to make their holidays special while they still believe. 

Nolan's elf was named by him "Mary Penguin."  Ahh, the innovative imaginations of children.  This is our fourth year with M.P. and she's gotten herself into all sorts of mischief from her hopping around through "elf magic," i.e. parental manipulation.  We've enjoyed a lot of shenanigans boyo will never know about until he's older, and those photos of Mary getting tossed with Woody,  Buzz Lightyear and Kermit the Frog ought to be priceless to him down the road. 

Ditto for Mary getting saved by and then getting it on with Indiana Jones.  Her fight with Skeletor is legendary, nearly as epic as her duel with Kylo Ren.  Mary and Godzilla have quite a little odd friendship going; they like to watch old 'zilla and Gamera flicks and I know they're communing amongst themselves sarcastically Mystery Science Theater 3000-style.  Then there's the time she wrecked a toy car and caused a major ruckus under the Christmas tree.  Puking in the toilet, well, I guess everyone's  elf has done that since this damned Elf On the Shelf tradition got started, and Mary's no exception, the lush.

Mary steals my protein powder, dive-bombs into a pool of marshmallows and I've even caught her copping a feel on my wife's Betty Boop while reaching underskirt of one of the redheaded Celtic dolls.  She's done it doggy style with a Halloween skeleton that missed the packing box, thus Mary loves her "Bone Daddy" and he  looks forward to Christmas as much as anyone.  Most of the time, Mary's innocent and sweet for Nolan, but we  know the truth.

This year she's been caught pushing Cure and Beatles discs at me to play, challenging me to a game of Simpsons chess and I just can't keep a shot glass out of her reach, since her annual bourbon toasts with me are tradition.  Well, here she's at it again, digging into my copy of Wonder Woman '77 Meets The Bionic Woman  # 1, the sneaky wench.  

Our elf has good taste, at least.

Reunited With My Very First Comic Book

The older I get, the more value I place upon the simplest things that may take a smidge of effort but are so worth it in the long run.  I love grinding coffee beans for my java versus a mere scoop and dump into the carafe.  Keurig is strictly for the office when I have to get back to my desk in reasonable time.  I love how long it takes me now to walk the trash out to the street at night, these days living on a farm, because more often than not, God's majesty is revealed to me with sprawling constellations to marvel at.  I indulge in shots and beer but not to extremes, and it's the days in-between without  booze that makes an an alcoholic beverage feel like a reward instead of something you take for granted and possibly destroy yourself over.

I am humbled time and again when I see my album reviews cited at Wikipedia.  I love pushing my body to split and rebuild my muscles.  When I receive a compliment for my dedication to fitness, I welcome it as a badge of honor.  I make the bitchinist salads and fajitas and take pride in sharing them with others.  I put a lot of love into my food creations as I do my everyday work in multiple professions.  I have the reputation of being a tireless grinder when it comes to work (I've been hilariously called Superman by a few) and yet to me, it's just the nature of my own beast.  My son is my greatest task and also my greatest achievement.  Still, at the end of the day, it's the simplest thing to give him my love and my soul; you would never know he's adopted we're so close.  I smile as I build new friendships, in particular people I knew back in school with less than three words exchanged, now finding common ground to build upon in our adult lives.  That's cool stuff.

It just takes a little effort, is all I'm saying.  Patience also goes a long way, while I'm at it.  Given our collective hectic lives as the human race, this is all easier said than done.  I get it.

When I was hosting the forum "Comic Books" at ReadWave, I posted a piece about my very first comic book.  That was more descriptive about the book and its place in time.  My rewrite this time will contain a far more personal slant.  I had no longer owned the book in question when I wrote that column, nor did I the coveted G.I. Joe  # 2 (Marvel's 1980's run) which was the topic of another post I'd dropped at ReadWave.  Both books had been lost to me over the ages and though I routinely spot second printings of G.I. Joe  # 2, I have no interest in it unless it's a first run, not to sound like the snotty Comic Book Guy in The Simpsons.  If something means that much to me, it's all or nothing.

My first comic--drum roll if you would--was Marvel Team-Up  # 72.  It was the summer of 1978 and my parents had just divorced.  I can't imagine what hell my mom faced as a temporary single mother, but this was one of only two periods of my entire life I ever gave her any kind of grief.  It was a shattered moment for us both as my dad exited our daily-do and my stepfather was about to enter the picture.  Yes, I saw my father on Saturdays and we built wonderful memories together in time.  At home, I had silently rebelled by leaving all my toys and trading cards scattered about my new bedroom in Essex, Maryland, as if daring my mother to do anything about it.  I'd been raised to be orderly and neat, which I still am today.  This freakout session is what child psychologists would call lashing out against a traumatic event and challenging the strength of a lone parent--in particular a female parent.  Is it any wonder the villain of my first comic book would be Whiplash?

My mom is tougher than Galactus' shin guard and one day I was taken to the movies with my aunt. This provided Mom the opportunity to show me you never  effed with her--not without dire consequences.  I came home to find all of my toys, vanished, dumpster-bound.  I was momentarily devastated, resentful-even.  Yet something inside that little kid who was frightened to shit after his father told him he was the man of the house now felt relieved his mother could bulldog if she needed to.  We became immediately bonded.  It wouldn't be long thereafter until she was reunited with a childhood sweetheart who'd survived Vietnam and soon took me as his own son.

In the midst of these gales of change came Marvel Team-Up  # 72.  We'd had a brutal way to go as a divided family from late 1977 into the summer of '78.  My mom decided we needed to blow off a little steam by taking a trip to Ocean City with my grandmother, aunt and cousins.  I only remember bits and pieces about that trip, but the most glaring moment came when my mother stopped at a local convenience store and put Marvel Team-Up  # 72 into my hands for the three hour trek to the beach.

Now you younger folk might scoff at the proposition that a lone comic book could entertain a child for so long of a drive.  This is the age of iPod and Nintendo DS, which I refer to as kid crack, since youngsters today can't even go five minutes without being plugged in like junior Borg.  Atari had only just started infiltrating the world and yeah, I eventually had handheld electronic games you've likely never heard of unless you're in your mid-forties today:  Merlin, Split Second and Mattel's Electronic Baseball and Electronic Football.  Our parents were generally stricter over our game play time, and very seldom would they tolerate twittering boops and squawks from the backseats of their cars.  Car Bingo was as much of a red-hot time as you could have as a child inside a car then.  Kids today have it so damned lucky.

Yes,  that single, solitary comic book occupied me for the entire ride.  It sounds ludicrous, I know.  It takes me an average time of 12-15 minutes to read a modern comic today, 15 solid for the vintage books.  How is it possible one comic lasted me so long?

Well, first and foremost, it was the most magical thing I'd seen outside of Kiss, Dr. Seuss and Star Wars.  I wasn't a slow reader by any means, but I was still learning to read comprehensively, so I tripped over certain words until I re-read them and inquired about their meanings.  Bigger picture, it was the mystique of seeing those action-packed panels spread before my eyes that captivated me.  Sure, I'd seen Spiderman countless times on the classic education show The Electric Company.  I'd seen comics many times but never really went after them, though I was deep into superheroes as you can infer by my prior posts here.  My cousin Shawn turned me onto Jonah Hex  later in 1978 though I had already become an avid comics scarfer a week after returning from the beach.

I'm not going to draw out too much time analyzing the plot for you this time.  I'm too busy waxing nostalgia, but the core story is thus:  Spiderman thwarts a cluster of fur robbers but gets shot with dart drug that makes him not only woozy, it mucks up his spider sense.  This leaves him vulnerable to attack by one of Iron Man's main baddies, Whiplash.  After getting trashed by Whiplash, Spidey's frequent enabler Detective Jean DeWolff takes charge of him after he's apprehended by the police.  Jean has summoned Iron Man to lend his expertise about Whiplash.  We're thus set up for a tag team with ol' Shellhead, ba-da-da-daaaaaa!   

Whiplash is in cahoots with an underground mafia of supervillains, The Maggia.  The Section Leader of these costumed thugs ends up being Jean's unhinged brother, Brian, who can manipulate psyches to trigger hallucinations or to do his evil bidding.  Sheesh, I sound as old school as this book.  Brian, that dirty dog, manipulates Jean to turn a gun upon herself.  Spidey and Iron Man pull some trickery of their own to take out Whiplash and Brian in a goofy table turn abruptly ends in forgiveness, puzzling even our heroes.

For a young kid in 1978, however, this was powerful stuff.  I read, then re-read and re-read it again on the way to Ocean City, pausing only to gape at the sprawling Chesapeake while crossing the Bay Bridge.  It was the only sight that could possibly compete with all the trouncing and flogging throughout Marvel Team-Up  # 72.  Well, there were those old Coppertone billboards with the runty dog pulling the girl's bathing suit to reveal her tanless bottom.  They prompted such giggles out of me my mom knew every time what had triggered them.

I lost this book among many others when I was forced to sell half my collection years ago.  There's only so much money these days for pleasure, so rebuilding my collection has been a gradual process, one spent fishing out of dollar boxes and 50-70% off back issue sales.  It's probably not worth any more than the $1.20 I just paid for it, particularly with one of those muscle-building ads I mentioned in the Geppi Museum post clipped out of it.  Being a devout gym rat, I laughed heartily at that.

To me, it's worth a ton, as if I'd scored back Amazing Spiderman  # 252, the single issue I regret letting go.  That was the first appearance of Peter Parker's black suit, the alien nemesis which gestated into the contemporary badguy legend, Venom.  The first appearance on Earth, let's clarify, since it was 1984's Secret Wars  # 8 where Peter and the symbiote first bonded (I do  still have that one, thank you).

Having back the book that christened me into comics, one bearing the classic Rick Barry vs. Dr. J Spalding ad on the back...priceless.  I don't give two craps about basketball any longer, but I was a huge Dr. J. and 76'ers fan back in the day, thus it's always a treat seeing this ad when adding bronze age books back into the collection.

With patience and the effort to keep a vigilant eye out for a book many would finger past a zillion other downgraded comics, I got a sectioned part of my life back.  It's the simple things, I'm telling you...

Dad and Son's Silent Review of the Doctor Strange Movie

Father and Son Taking In Steve Geppi's Wonder Emporium

The opening episode of this season of Comic Book Men  triggered it.  I'm ashamed for not getting there sooner.  I'm a homie and a comic book nerd.  This should've been a checked off pilgrimage ages ago.  I've passed by it a zillion times going to Baltimore Orioles games.  If not for the warehouse flanking Eutaw Street serving as a hypothetical shield, Chris Davis or Mark Trumbo might've served it a few souvenir homer balls.

I'm talking about the Geppi Entertainment Museum in Baltimore.  Walt Flanagan summoned his crew at The Stash (i.e. Jay and Silent Bob's Secret Stash comic shop) for a road trip to open the new season of Comic Book Men  and got a bigger deal than most of us ever will--albeit, the staff at the museum are incredibly nice, helpful and eager to talk with you.  Flanagan's posse and the AMC cameras were accompanied by the owner of the museum, Mr. Steve Geppi himself on their tour.  Better yet, Mr. Geppi pulled out his original copy of Action Comics  # 1 (the holy grail of comic books) to not only show the contents, but to allow Flanagan to inhale its pulp-preserved glory.  You know that special fragrance an antique comic book bequeaths its recipient.  Walt, you lucky S.O.B.

Now I remember as a youngster what a genuinely kind man Mr. Geppi was in his stores, which were, in the 1980s, the mecca of Maryland-based comic shops.  I'll always refer to him with a proper designation as "Mister," since the man has done nearly as much for Baltimore as the former mayor William Donald Schaefer, one of the most beloved individuals who ever served our region.  If you're a true comic book fan, you know the name of Geppi.  He owns Diamond Distributors, the only nationwide comics distributor.  Without Diamond, who knows if we'd have a comics industry as we know and attempt to preserve it for future generations.  With the print medium dying at-large, what he's done for comics should never be understated.

Mr. Geppi owns Gemstone Publishing, Inc., responsible for the EC Comics reprints and the blue book bible Overstreet Comic Book Price Guide.  He owns Baltimore  magazine, more relevant if you're a local, however, this is an award-winning journal of national prominence.  Mr. Geppi is part owner of the Orioles and one its most diehard fans.  Of course, he has Diamond International Galleries, which is what makes Geppi Entertainment Museum the treasure house it is.

Geppi's Comics was an institution.  It was the Baltimore version of Mile High Comics, a place us east coasters ached to visit since they constantly advertised back issues for sale in comics throughout the Eighties.  If you stepped into Geppi's massive location at Security Square Mall, it was the near-equivalent of walking into a Tower Records.  While building his empire, Mr. Geppi was frequently manning the register and if there's ever been a friendlier ambassador for the genre other than Smilin' Stan Lee, I can't tell you who that is.

Frequently, Mr. Geppi would compliment your picks when coming up to ring out, in particular if you were a kid.  He gave me praise for my selections numerous times and whether it was for show or his sincere opinion, it meant everything.  It stoked my passion for comics and befitting of proper customer service, it made me a return visitor, even though I lived on the other side of Baltimore County.  If you know the area, you'll understand what it meant to get from Rosedale to Woodlawn and Geppi's Comics.  There was also a location inside Harborplace at Baltimore's Inner Harbor, and yes, Mr. Geppi could be spotted there too.

My son is following in my footsteps.  I love horror movies, so does he.  I love Star Wars,  so does he.  I love Boo Berry cereal.  So does he.  I love music...you get the picture.  After telling my son what it was like when I was kid, waking up on Saturdays and pouring myself Boo Berry and watching Superfriends  in the 1970s, he simply had to have the same experience with me.  Sure, it's a little different manipulating the event with DVDs, but the intent is the same.

Boyo may not boast the comic collection size of his old man, but he's on his way.  His bin has now overflowed and that makes me happy.  He's still learning to read fluently, but he wants so much to please me and to share experiences with me that it's a humbling thing I know will likely diminish in his teen years.  I've taken the advice of many to savor it all now.  As Nolan has amassed a legion of superhero and Star Wars  toys (many donated by me), his mouth hung agape when I told him a sabbatical for comic book, toy and nostalgia enthusiasts like Geppi's Entertainment Museum existed and that I was overdue a visit.  He was more than happy to tag along.

We've had a rough year as a family.  Like Peter Parker, the Van Horn luck has been "in," and though I've been humbled numerous times by the generosity of others to ease the burdens 2016 has presented us, it's been a difficult challenge.  For a young boy who deserves more fun than he's been provided due to a succession of hardships, I felt this trip to Geppi's Entertainment Museum needed a special touch.

Instead of driving downtown, I thought Nolan might enjoy his first ride on the light rail train, which drops you off right at Camden Yards, where the Orioles play and Geppi's wonder emporium co-inhabits.  I had no idea what was in store for our travel plans, but at least until the North Avenue stop, my son forgot all about electronic gizmos and Five Nights at Freddy's,  taking in the world as only a train can provide.  I was silently congratulating myself as he marveled at everything, including the microcosm inside the train, which can often present its own form of amusement.

Well, I had no clue there would be no service on the light rail between North Avenue and Camden Yards.  Perhaps a quick check at the MTA's website would've enlightened me properly, but then, we might've missed out on a trip that became more memorable than the magic we beheld at Geppi's Entertainment Museum.

The MTA shuttled us by bus from North Avenue to Camden Yards, which is gracious of them, I'll admit.  Neither one of us thought about much else other than seeing Action Comics  # 1 and Detective Comics  # 27 (the births of two icons who stupidly fought for nothing on film this year) live.  Any inconvenience was long to our backs once we were in proximity of these masterworks.  I felt my gut drop in that wonderful way it gets when you're in the presence of something incredible.  It was the same feeling when I interviewed Ronnie James Dio and Rob Halford.

The comics room at the museum alone is worth the price of admission.  Action Comics  # 1 is the reason for the season, yes.  We all rejoiced as a city of comic dweebs when the news broke Mr. Geppi had procured an original copy.  In a way, the comic belonged to all of us, since Mr. Geppi was one of us, and being the righteous man he is, he was sharing it with everyone.  That being said, I felt the same gooey sensation when I spotted the collection of original EC books, i.e. Tales From the Crypt, Vault of Horror, Two-Fisted Tales, Haunt of Fear,  etc.  I own but one original Tales from the Crypt and Vault of Horror  each, and to behold so many pristine copies that had survived the nefarious book burnings in the paranoid age of  McCarthyism in the 1950s...it was humbling, as a fan and as a lover of history.

For the comics buff, this really is a mandatory crash zone.  Mr. Geppi has on display the first appearance issues of everyone from Batgirl to Black Panther to Iron Man to Doctor Strange to The Incredible Hulk.  Of course, there's an original Amazing Fantasy  # 15, which any rudimentary comics aficionado will recognize as Spider-Man's official debut.  There are the throwback war, cowboy and romance comics, Nancy and Sluggo, Archie...  Truly astonishing, however, is how many vintage Atlas Comics are housed here.  You have to really  be into this stuff to know the old Atlas imprint from the Fabulous Fifties.  In case you're a newbie to the name, you'll know it better by its future moniker, Marvel Comics.

Now, I got ten times more out of this visit than most Gen X'ers, much less kids my son's age.  I was raised on pop culture from the 1920s through the 1960s, so I knew the relevance of Tom Mix and Hopalong Cassidy, two of the old-time western heroes who are showcased prominently around the museum.  I knew the marionette Howdy Doody and his clown sidekick, Clarabelle, which can be spotted in a stellar 1950s room--here you can squint at relic tube televisions with screens barely bigger than a cell phone.

Captain Midnight, Captain Video, Sky King, The Cisco Kid, The Lone Ranger...these were what our parents and grandparents were watching on Saturday mornings as I myself watched Superfriends, The Bugs Bunny/Roadrunner Show, Fat Albert, Tarzan/Batman Hour, Jason of Star Command, Isis, Shazam and Spiderman and His Amazing Friends.  Sidebar, the art of Saturday morning entertainment has been forever lost.  Though most kids today would hardly care in the age of instant gratification via home video and YouTube, Animaniacs, Pinky and the Brain, Batman:  The Animated Series, Superman  (the 1990s series), Max Steel and Transformers:  Beast Machines  represent the final threshold of Saturday morning escapism.  I miss it greatly.

I geeked over the Flash Gordon serial era collection and my son and I both giggled at the old Superman exercise kit that kids from way back could use to get fit before you could buy into those goading bodybuilding ads shamelessly plugged into comics for eons.  If you don't want to be picked on for loving comics (or consuming heavy metal music, for that matter), do as I've done over the years, and pump iron!  I found myself taking pics for my stepfather, who grew up on the old cowboy shows and who will pine and ache at nearly every corner of the museum once I get him there, since it's tailored to affect all generations.  Get along, Hoppy!!!

Of course, I fell into the wonderful trap of Batman and Star Wars  memorabilia aside from a hundred other things from the 1970s and '80s which I either owned or still have:  I nearly choked seeing my old Close Encounters of the Third Kind  lunchbox as I did the Bat phone and bookcase-opening bust from the Adam West Batman  series.  I said hello to my old crushes Catherine Bach, Farrah Fawcett and Barbara Eden.  Nearly every Star Wars  toy there was in my grasp way back when and Nolan perfectly understood the significance of it.  We all like to say he's an old soul, and he's learned not to rush his elders along as kids tend to do.  He gets it when you explain why something presented affects someone.  I'm just thrilled to have a kid who squeals with delight spotting a Creature from the Black Lagoon  head, much less one who points out every Archie item in the place.

I can't harp enough how courteous the museum staff was.  They embody Mr. Geppi's welcoming spirit and I told them the very story I outlined here, how he made his customers feel special and wanting to be a part of something once considered subculture but has grown into a mainstream phenomenon.  The response I got from one of the employees was this:  "I hear these stories a lot from Mr. Geppi's old customers.  It's all of you people who supported his stores that made this place possible.  Thank you."  Who does that anymore?

Now, the glowing glee Nolan and I felt coming out of Geppi's Entertainment Museum was dashed by the suddenly frigid and windy temperatures outside.  The afternoon weather had been uncharacteristically balmy for fall, hot even.  I'd left our hoodies in the car back on the other end of the light rail line, and keep in mind, the MTA had shut down the Camden Yards stop and those leading back up to North Avenue.  The shuttle bus they were providing pulled away just as we got close to it.

So I parked us under the cubicle at the adjacent bus stop, trying not to laugh at the guy pulling on a joint and suddenly embarrassed to have a father and son in his midst.  The dude whirled into the corner and made it disappear probably faster than he wanted to.  For his shame and courtesy, I gave him a short nod and didn't bust him.  Luckily, Nolan has no clue what pot smells like yet.  The downturn was the wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped an easy twenty degrees.  I'm in shorts and a t-shirt, Nolan in pants and long-sleeve.

The poor child was shivering up a storm as I bear hugged him to keep him warm, in wait of the next shuttle.  Well, that didn't happen for quite some time and I had no choice but to take him into Subway and warm him up with some food.  Vigilantly we sat at the front window, scouting for the next shuttle.  It was comical, actually, seeing us scour each bus that came in preparation of darting for it.  By the time next shuttle did arrive, we bolted out trying to make it.  I had to do this properly so I didn't put my son into harm's way, but we ended up chasing that damned bus for three blocks and not once did it stop, even with all my yelling.

Going as far as I dared with a young boy, knowing the upcoming block was less than appealing, I doubled back and the angry bear father in me escorted his cub straight to the convention center two blocks back, figuring we could snag a cab there.  My gambit paid off and my son got introduced to the blazing speed of a cabbie.  He loved it.  I acted like I was indifferent, but inside I was screaming, don't you dare get my kid hurt!

Having finally settled ourselves on a train at North Avenue, I felt exasperated but proud of myself--more so of Nolan.  I was screaming inside the entire time we couldn't get a bus back, but he bucked up and supported me by being such a strong child.  I showed him no fear and he reciprocated.  The highlight of that entire part of trip came when I said, "Alright, forget the daggone bus, I'm getting us home right now!" and he said in return, "I'll allow you to cuss Dad, I'm doing it inside my head."

With rain now a part of the mix, the light rail yet again snookered us by dumping us out four stops to the end, but a new train collected us fairly quick as we made friends with a woman who laughed at our war story.  The peaceful part for me as a father came when Nolan asked to start reading the comics we'd bought at the gift shop and as you can see above, he fell into a state of content that took my momentary angst away.

I'd like to hope Mr. Geppi might take some pride by his indirect handiwork...

For My Kiddo, Who Can't Get Enough Spidey These Days...

           

How I Learned About Sex Through Hustler and Heavy Metal Magazines

K, so I just finished reading Heavy Metal  magazine # 281, the dubbed "Sex Special" from this past summer.  Yeah, I'm behind on my reading, this considering Heavy Metal's  "Fear Special" just dropped this week.  With Grant Morrison at the editing helm, Heavy Metal  just may be riding their own new Renaissance, and his riotous "fukk" story, "Option 3" in issue 281 had me roaring, particularly the roundabout fate of his dick-swinging lead.  What a punchline!

The "Sex Special" had me reeling in the years (cue Steely Dan) toward 1981, a golden year for me at age 11.  While I was a year shy of the harshest days of my youth where I was forced to slug my way out of continuous persecution (that day I finally lost it and trashed five kids being a visceral vision in my head all these years later), 1981 was boss.  

Those were sticky nights conjured from my subconscious slumber cinema, projected images of front-and-center band majorettes flashing me and space nymphs prancing around naked while I took their pictures with an old Polaroid Instamatic.  I can still hear the fun cough-sneeze sounds of those antique cameras that were instant gratification if you didn't feel like waiting a week to drop film rolls off at your local supermarket's film developing kiosk.  If you've ever owned a Polaroid and had sex, you well-grasp (no pun intended) the intertwined value.

I was getting away with the crime of century, on a microcosmic scale, anyway.  At age 11, I was reading both Heavy Metal  and Savage Sword of Conan  on a regular basis.   To the average person, what does this mean?  Probably not much, since this material is bred for and consumed by a subculture audience.  Granted, a large percentage of Heavy Metal  readers are intellectuals, much in the same manner surveys have revealed surgeons and finance wizards are secretly listening to Slayer.

Heavy Metal  magazine caters to fans of hard sci-fi, futuristic action, pulp, high fantasy, otherworldly noir...and copulation with species not of our own.  Before the pumping dildo machine you see on HBO's Real Sex,  that gonzo idea was fleshed out long before in Heavy Metal.  While never a true hardcore rag, Heavy Metal  has historically pushed sex as far as conventional society will permit without summoning a right wing cotillion to shut it down.  The fact Heavy Metal  has survived this long and still maintains relevance is truly remarkable.

With this explanation, you better understand the significance of how an 11-year-old boy was able to procure something boldly labeled "The Adult Illustrated Fantasy Magazine."  To hell with Willy Wonka's golden tickets and chocolate factory tours.  This  became my candy.  Rock hard, at that.

At age 9, I'd first learned about sex in the following fashion:  My parents had divorced and my father had visitation rights each Saturday.  For a long while, he hopped from bachelor pad to bachelor pad and eventually, he got careless.  Post-divorce, my dad was a regular reader of Hustler  magazine.  It never really occurred to me I was about to break into forbidden manna when I spotted the following cover peeking out from underneath a stack of newspapers and racing track forms:

Yes, I knew the word "boobs" and I knew women carried them to feed their newborns.  Amazing amidst the sexual revolution of the 1970s there was still far more conservatism in what kids were taught about sex, much less when.  As a father, I'm mortified by how early the schools teach children about drugs and sex, and I have a feeling my personal kid-year sins are about to haunt me in due time.

I'm being honest when I say it was the American flag that first drew my attention upon spotting the August, 1979 issue of Hustler.  I really had no idea what I was in for once I slid it out while Dad was taking a crap.  My eyes literally bugged out.  It wasn't enough to see naked women spread full-frontal.  Hustler  depicted sexual acts (or at least the predication of intercourse) with men's bulking cocks aimed toward the epicenters of their model partners.  I was, frankly, scared out of my mind, still a child, to see that a wee-wee could grow to something so huge and intimidating.

Suffice it to say, my father fell ghostly white upon spotting me with that magazine cracked open.  Poor dude, he was forced into teaching me about sex through a fuck rag.  Once he assured me all was natural and one day I would be that guy with the raging penis (my phrase, not his), I felt better about it.  Of course, I had to listen to my mother rip into Dad over the phone over the whole matter and felt incredibly guilty at the time.  The Hustler  mags disappeared until I got older and the sex-obsessed tween in me (we boys are incurable pervs from ages 12 to 15) went on a scavenger hunt in his house to nick a handful for my personal use.

Now from ages 8 through 10, I was blowing my allowance on baseball cards, Star Wars cards, Kiss cards, candy bars, root beers and comic books.  You youngbloods would shit your pants to know what you could score for a mere buck back in the day.  I was reading Amazing Spiderman, Peter Parker, The Spectacular Spiderman, Uncanny X-Men, Detective Comics, Action Comics  and Jonah Hex  religiously in this time frame.

My introduction to Conan the Barbarian came via Marvel Comics and that soon became added to my must-grabs from the long-ago spinner racks.  Of course, you can imagine where my hormones were heading with the cavalcade of Conan's scantily-clad female characters (usually defiled and portrayed as helpless unless gifted with sorcery or a progressive swordsmanship teacher).  As my reading skills developed, I soon grabbed the Robert E. Howard and L. Sprague de Camp's pulp novels featuring Conan.  You betcha there was a lot of fornication involved behind the goring and adventuring, and I was stoked, for lack of a better word.  I was brokenhearted I couldn't see Arnold Schwarzenegger's first film romp in Conan the Barbarian since it was an R-rated orgy of blood and sex, just the things I craved at the time.  To my joy, however, I soon had access to Savage Sword of Conan,  the black-and-white Marvel offshoot spilling just a little more grue and titillation than they allowed in the regular Conan comic.

I won't directly name the chain as they're still today a leader in the convenience store industry, but if you remember their old jingle, oh thank Heaven...   I'm sure slight obtuseness played a part in it, but more than likely, the cashier I normally confronted at this store empathized with what a heterosexual 11-year-old boy mystified by the female form felt like.

I tried my luck first with Savage Sword.   Keep in mind, Savage Sword of Conan  and Heavy Metal  magazines were never kept near the comic book racks or spindles.  They were shoved toward the front of the store, mingled in with Newsweek, Time, Field and Stream, Popular Mechanics,  all the normal trade mags.  If a store proprietor was on the ball, Heavy Metal  magazine was usually sitting between Playboy  and Penthouse,  practically as a dare.

Well, I dared and I won--repeatedly.  Only once did I catch a smirk upon that cashier's face as he rang up two bucks plus five percent Maryland sales tax and off I'd walk with Heavy Metal,  happier than if Red Sonja had given me a lap dance without the chain mail.  I began cutting back on a couple of my other books and swore off trading cards so I could save up for Heavy Metal  and Savage Sword of Conan.   Fate soon played conspirator in my favor as my grandmother eventually skinned me a dollar every Saturday when we'd come by since I hated Pepsi and that's the only soda she'd stock.  I was then able to continue reading all of my favorite comics, so long as I came back with a Dr. Pepper each time to justify her sliding me the Washington every week.  In an indirect manner, Grandma contributed to my Heavy Metal  and Savage Sword  sprees.

Such glorious times.  The ironic fact was I would buy Heavy Metal  and Savage Sword of Conan  on Saturdays from said store, which was within walking distance of my dad's apartment.  I'm sure he knew I was pulling a sham since I would wait until I got home to read those magazines in the privacy of my bedroom.  If he'd leafed through and scouted even one page of Den's fuck-fests while I was away peeing, he never let on.  It would've been a great get-back.  He never narcked me out, God bless him.

Only because I was underage I was unable get in to the Heavy Metal  movie that same year.  So close to the threshold since I was a regular reader who shouldn't have been, but fate again accompanied me three years later as I got myself and my horde of buddies into Friday the 13th, Part IV.   By the time I got the Heavy Metal  soundtrack, those songs from Blue Oyster Cult, Sammy Hagar, Devo, Nazareth, Donald Fagen, Riggs, Don Felder and Cheap Trick became part of my DNA, as a music journalist and fantasy fan.  Before I ever owned Black Sabbath's Mob Rules  album, I associated the song with Heavy Metal,  the magazine and film.  There are certain bands, of the past and even today (such as Baroness and The Sword) that I simply must have spinning while reading Heavy Metal  magazine.  They fit like a, well...you know.

With older eyes and a tighter control over my sexual urges, I get tons more out of these wonderful sci-fi yarns, even when going back and reading the now-outdated 15 Years of Heavy Metal  compendium.  When I read Den, Sunpot and Valentina today, I feel my teeth grit giddily.  This  was my higher school of learning and as one of the children of the future (to pull from Eleuteri Serpieri), I am blessed more than the average of my fellow Gen Xers.

Choosy Scouts Choose Spidey

My son, who is at the Bear level in Cub Scouts this year, came running to me over the weekend with his latest issue of Boys' Life.  Since we'd been watching Spiderman 3  on the tube and likewise since I had my nose deep in the Return of the Black Cat  trade, Nolan plopped next to me at my reading spot and excitedly shook his magazine at me.

Now, I'd been a Scout once, making it at least through the junior ranks and into my first year of Boy Scouts until I dropped out.  Boys' Life  had been a part of my mandatory reading itinerary back then, so it's not even nostalgia that made me smile a bit harder seeing the modern edition drop into the crease of my book, breaking up a heated kiss between the webhead and Felicia Hardy for all of New York City to witness including, gasp,  Mary Jane...

After he made a curious comment about why Peter Parker would hurt Mary Jane like that, I gave him the quick rehash that the comic book power couple had long split up, Renew Your Vows  notwithstanding.  It became a mere footnote to the kid, who quickly thumbed to the page that had prompted his amusing interruption and chimed to the tune of, "Dad!  Dad!  Look at this!  The readers picked Spiderman as their favorite superhero!  He even beat Batman and Captain America!"

Indeed, page 60 of the October, 2016 edition of Boys' Life  presented its reader poll for "Favorite Superhero" and it was only by a three percent margin, but the wall crawler took top honors over Cap, grabbing 24% of the vote.  Just as he was when I was Nolan's age, Spiderman is king of comics.  Of course, there were three quarters less the number of titles to choose from back in 1978, and we had the zip-pop education show The Electric Company  to reinforce Spidey, who was a silent mainstay on the program.  Spiderman forced us to learn how to read through his sqwawky word balloons and effectively turn to his comics back in the day.  Always the shrewd marketers lurking in the Marvel bullpen.

Out of eight finalists, the breakdown in popularity according to Boys' Life  ended up thus:

24%   Spiderman
21%   Captain America
17%   Batman
15%   Iron Man
13%   Superman
4%     Wolverine
3%     Hulk
3%     Thor

Perhaps the funniest moment of this memorable sit-down with Nolan came when he said, "Gee, Dad, I feel bad for Thor.  I know how much you like him.  What's wrong with people?  Also, Hulk?   Only 3%?  Are you kidding  me?  He could beat all of them, except maybe Thor, or Superman, or Iron Man...but it still stinks he finished so low.  Hulk rules.  Yay, Spidey, though.  Can we watch Spectacular Spiderman ?"

With any luck, we'll still be having these types of conversations after he hits Weblos.

Welcome...

Greetings, readers, welcome to Van Horn's third blog...yeah, third...Confessions of an Old School Comics Nerd.

If you're coming over as one my loyal followers from The Metal Minute  and The Crash Pad of Ray Van Horn, Jr., I thank you for your continued patronage.  While I haven't posted jack at either page in forever, they continue to be stat machines, so I felt a third one was in order, a hub where I can really take my passion for comic books to...well, somewhere.  You vets of The Crash Pad  have already been submitted to my more-than-routine ramblings about the genre, so expect nothing but comics speak here.

My aim with Confessions of an Old School Comics Nerd  is to not only celebrate the medium with retrospective looks at comics from over the years, along with sharing my longtime perspectives, I will do what I do as a music journalist:  stay old school while keeping my finger on the pulse of the new.  For me, it's never old versus new, but new complimenting old.  Thus, this will be a hub where new books will be reviewed, breaking news could likely pop up here, a guest or two from the industry might give me a few moments to chat for this site, or maybe I'll even showcase some new talent since what I do as a music writer and tastemaker is help break new artists. 

As a father, I get very few releases around home as I'm working dual careers on top of parenting, and the writer portion of my being is often shoved into the evening hours.  Comic books serve as my release and always have, aside from music, film, animation, baseball, football and hockey. 

Comics have consumed my life and anyone who knows me knows what strides I've been taking the past couple years trying to network inside the comics scene as an aspirant script writer.  It's doubly hard to break into this medium than it was for me to rise to A-list in metal and punk journalism, but I have every bit of faith my time will come.  Already I've been offered an eight-page script assignment for a music-themed comic as part of an existing series.  I'm stoked for the opportunity and it inspired me to get this site rolling. 

So what makes me qualified to yak at you fellow freaks about comics, since there's a shit ton of respected websites, hubs and blogs doing what I'm attempting to do here other than grade your books for future resale?  K, I'll answer that in order:

1.  When watching the Spiderman films with my son, I always remind him Betty Brant was Peter's first  true love before Gwen, Debra, MJ, Felicia and Carlie.  After taking the extra minute to explain who Debra and Carlie were in Peter's love-stinks life (cue up the J. Geils Band, if you please), I always say MJ would be my  numero uno if real life was comic book life.  Betty, to be fair, could be pretty hot for a nerdette newspaper secretary.

2.  When walking out of Batman v. Superman, the first question I blurted out to my friends was "Who the hell moved Metropolis across the pond from Gotham?"   Oh, my bad, this must've been Earth 2. 

3.  I own an original copy of Tales from the Crypt  # 44.  Foom!

4.  I used to work comics retail in the early 1990s.  Yeah, you know, when Superman died the first  time?   Black Friday, 1992, we had a line down the entire strip center from non-comics folks looking to cash in.  Of course, nobody, especially the owners, told them they were shacking out for second printings.  "Hah!" guffawed Doomsday.  DC did more than guffaw that year.  The rest of us guffawed at Supes' mullet upon his miraculous return from the dead.

5.  I was there at the theater in 1977 when the original Star Wars  (these days referred to as A New Hope ) premiered.  It was the greatest moment of my childhood.  I was also there when a green Bugs Bunny showed his dumb ass in Marvel's Star Wars # 8 and 9, one of the biggest betrayals  of my childhood.

So, as they chimed each week on The Beverly Hillbillies, ya'll come now, y'hear?  Yeah, I'm old school, pathetically so.