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The Horror! The Horror! Ghastly Ingels and the Art of Real Yuch

My latest is up at http://www.tcj.com/the-horror-the-horror-graham-ingels-and-the-art-of-real-yuch/

It begins:

As this volume’s only contributor to have actually read – and suffered the loss of EC comics – as a kid, I feel the weight of a generation – well, a thin, weird slice of a generation – on my shoulders. Like the one alone, you know, escaped to tell you. Like the last surviving veteran of a momentous battle, though this battle’s heart-wrenching outcome, the gutting of EC following the imposition of the Comic Code of 1954, was worth only two square inches in the local press. (I retain the Philadelphia Bulletin’s actual story, preserved behind Scotch tape on blotting paper, as a personally tailored flagellant if you doubt me.)

The Road Goes On Forever

My latest is up at http://bit.ly/1YkaqqX

It begins:

Peter Kurt Woerner’s “Odyssey” is one hundred cubic inches and 3.4 pounds of gorgeous and compelling viewing/reading. $45 to him, 44 Kendall, New Haven, CT 06512 brings a copy.

Woerner and I were Friends’ Central Class of ‘60. He was personable, good looking, a stellar athlete, and dater of debutantes. To a Jewish kid from West Philly he seemed a Prince of the Main Line. He’d “secret” societied at Yale, then M.Arch’d it. We’d gone 50 years without contact. His book landed, unexpected as a flying saucer.

Allen Dulles

My friend and most trusted political adviser, Budd, hates Allen Dulles. This may surprise those who have not woken up with Mr. Dulles on their mind since before the break-up of the Beatles, but he seems needed fuel for those who believes that those who do not remember history are condemned and wish to remind themselves and others what evil the USA can do.

Budd has been reading a biography of Dulles by David Talbot, a journalist of impeccable… Well, a journalist impeccably ideologically straight-jacketed. Budd is clear on Talbot’s bent, but he still led off our last get-together by fingering Dulles for offing Patrice Lumumba, another figure long absent from “Jeopardy”‘s big board.

Sure, Dulles was probably evil, but Henry Kissinger, whom Budd admires and who is still with us, probably has more blood on his hands. And granted Lumumba’s execution, without due process of semblance of trial, was an abominable act; and while the Congolese and Belgians were more directly implicated, Dulles could easily have gone down as a co-conspirator. But bigger-picture (and sardonic humor)-wise, given went on in the next 50 years in the various states the British, French, and Belgians left behind them, how confident can we be that the Congo citizenry would have been better off if Lumumba had been left in place than if Joseph Mobutu hadn’t been maneuvered to replace him?

I can’t tell from Wikipedia what total body-count Mobutu rolled up while at his nation’s helm, but he did seem to have gutted the country financially, while, in good capitalist fashion, enriching himself unduly. On the other hand, Julius Nyere, who seems to have shared Lumumba’s more socialist inclination, left Tanzania “one of the poorest, least developed, and most foreign aid dependent countries in the world.”

I mean, I think the world can regularly be counted on to throw up evil men, like landslides or earthquakes or famines, to destroy hundreds or thousands or millions. I’ve said this before but maybe, given that, you’ve just got to step back and take the long view. Like President Obama said in the NYT today (in the Styles section, of all places), “(T)he fact is the world is wealthier, healthier, better educated, less violent, more tolerant, more morally conscious, and more attentive to the vulnerable than it has ever been.”

It may be good to get as angry as Budd does, but keep that in mind too.

Confessions of Media Baronhood (cont.)

Word has received me that the shipping of “Cheesesteak,” the maiden effort of my publishing empire, has been delayed due to the malfunction of my printer’s binder. It, hopefully, will arrive by the end of next week.

Once I have a copy in had, I can take it to Staple’s and see what is the least expensive mailer in which it will fit and stock up on those. Then once I have one inside the mailer, I can take it to the post office and learn the least expensive way to mail it. (Keep that overhead down.)

Meanwhile, I have invested in a rubber stamp for addressing the envelopes: $4.99, plus $5.00 for postage. (Keep those man hours down too.)

update

I received an apologetic and explanatory e-mail from the fellow who requested my article. He seems the victim of others’ machinations and betrayals. I withdraw all snarky remarks I made.
(Didn’t say anything about my payment though.)

This Writing Life (con.)

Constant readers with unimpaired memories will recall my invitation a year and a half or so ago to contribute an essay to a book/catalog which would accompany a (at least) two-museum tour of original EC Comic art. My topic was to be EC’s horror comics, with concentration on the genre’s master, Graham “Ghastly” Ingles. The topic appealed; the promised check (by my standards) good; and I jumped on the offer.

I got into it. I reviewed all of EC’s horror books. I checked numerous secondary sources for information, quotes, and color. I found people to interview, who no one in the comic world and ever interviewed. And — kick of all kicks — I discovered what had happened to Ingles, who, comic world legend had it, had seemingly disappeared, reclusive, bitter, after the imposition of the Code in 1954 had wiped horror from the four-color universe.

The first bad news I received from the curator of the exhibit was that he couldn’t pay me right away, after all. The second bad news was, not only had the tour not expanded, one of the museums on board had cancelled. The third was… Well, there was no more news.

Last week I sent him an e-mail. He excitedly reported that the exhibition would open in two weeks. If I cared to come to Oregon — on my own dime — he would comp me to the event. (I declined.) And, oh yeah, there would be no book/catalogue. “Maybe… in a year or two” he would release an anthology. No mention was made of my money (and I was too polite to press him).

I said I did not care to wait. The Comics Journal will be posting my piece on line any day now.

Stay tuned.

The Death of Prince

Place: The Health Club
Time: A few days ago

“Prince died.”
“Prince died.”
“Prince died.”
“Prince died.”
“Prince died.”
“Prince died.”
“So did Pearl Washington,” I said.
“Who’s she?”
I did not mention Chyna.

Robert Reich Walks Into A Cafe

“Orange juice to go. And a bagel with cream cheese and tomato to go.”
“What kind of bagel?” Jose says
“I always get confused. What are these?” Robert Reich points.
“Raisin.”
“Raisin.”
“$4.55.”
“$4.55?”
“Is more in Washington?” Jose says.
“You in Washington on business?” Angel says.
“Business.”
“Pleasure?”
Robert Reich shakes head, smiles. “Never pleasure.”
“Do you know Mr. Obama, yourself?”
“He’s very good. Not on everything. But he’s a good man.”

Two Poems

I. Political Science

Fuck national polls.
I want to know about states.
And fuck most states.
Only half-a-dozen matter.
The rest don’t care if you run Bob’s uncle.

II. Locker Room

The poet said he’d lunched with
Our mutual friend
Who’d had a stroke.
They’d discussed
Their mutual friend
Who had ALS.
Which reminded the poet
to tell me of his friend alone
In hospice.

There’s a lot of this
Going around.

Notes on Media Baronhood: Report to Stockholders

So here is where things stand.

Having overcome the debacles at that photocopy place and with those idiots at Lulu and the loss of my PDFs when Windows 10 destroyed my computer (Thank you Michael, my pal and formatter, for keeping your copies), I signed up with a commercial printer for “Cheesesteak.” True, the proofs it sent me did overlook my six pre-pages (title page, copyright, dedication, TOC, Author’s Intro), but that’s all cool now, and all should be ready inside a month. “Schiz,” my black comedy novel is awaiting a cover and an illustration from a late-added cartoonist, and then its presses will be ready to roll. Adele and I have finished a second draft of “Heart,” and I’m setting a date to sit down with Dr. M for her input. My collection of comic-related pieces is, I think, still awaiting a decision from an indie publisher. I say “think,” because he didn’t reply to my last inquiry, but, fuck him, I have enough to do. Like publish “Lollipop,” my VISTA book (and “Cheesesteak” sequel) and “Industrial Injury” my workers’ comp book (and sequel to the other two) and…

But wait a minute. Could this be my newly-increased Lexapro talking? What is the point of self-publishing three or four or five books in three or four or six months unless you are carrying out some semi-crazed art project?

Just the other day, in the “Times,” John Prine discussed an alternate business model. After he became sick of record companies, he decided to issue his own sides. But he waited until the first one covered its costs before he did a second.

That makes sense to me.