When the Hardys Go Marching In

One last bit to leave you with before I leave for my trip:

After writing Monday's review of "Cryin' in the Street," I felt nostalgiac and pulled out the photographs Foot Foot and I took during our three different stays in New Orleans. So, here are some of my own slides of New Orleans...and St. Francisville, Lousiana (from 2005).

In St. Francisville, Lousiana, stands the Myrtles Plantation. Foot Foot, Nicholas, and I stopped at the Myrtles plantation there for two reasons: it is one of the grandest plantation houses still in existance, and the Smithsonian lists the mansion there as the most haunted house in America. When we arrived, it was the middle of the day, and it was hot, but the land and landscaping were beautiful, and after wandering around for awhile, the three of us sat down to rest and adore the scenery.

After cooling down, Foot Foot and I decided to go explore the mansion, but Nicholas told us that he saw something stwange near the carriage house. We asked him what he saw, but he didn't respond. He was staring afar, and he remained transfixed.


Foot Foot raised her voice to get his attention, and she asked him again what he saw. He told her to come look, that he sees a monster. Penny walked around behind him and peered over his shoulder, and she saw...

...something so hideous, that she screamed. Other tourists there looked at us, and they walked away. She asked me if I saw it, and I came around and peered over Nicholas's shoulder, but when I got there they told me it was gone. She took a picture of it, and she tells me now that the monster is somewhere in the picture above, but I just don't see it.

Foot Foot was ready to leave right then, but I wanted to see the inside of the house. I wanted to see evidence of the ghost of the slave Chloe, who poisoned the children of the house so that they'd be sick (but not deathly sick), and then she could nurse them back to health, thus incurring favor with the owners, which would allow her to become house-slave/nanny again. Alas, Chloe used too much oleander in the mix, and the children died. When the truth came out, so did Chole. Executed.

Since, the house has been rumored to be haunted both by Chloe's ghost and by the ghosts of the children. The most prominent haunted spot in the mansion is at and nearby the foot of the stairwell, opposite of which hangs a stately mirror. Pictured below is the mirror. If you look closely enough (and maybe squint your eyes just so), you can see the outline (it's faint, but I tell you it's there) of a figure wearing a white dress, arms held out straight to the sides, perpendicular to the body. Chloe wore a white dress. Everyday.

You know what's creepier than that? Look again at that picture below. You see those two people in the mirror? I don't even know who they are! I don't even remember them being there!

After touring the rest of the house and all of the grounds, we headed to New Orleans. Much later that night, after driving around the French Quarter, lost, for an hour, we finally found our bed & breakfast (without the breakfast, we'd discover the next morning), but it was locked, the envelope with the keys NOT where the owner said they'd be. I used a lock of my hair and the tag from my underwear to break into the massive wrought-iron gate, and we went inside and crashed.

The next morning was beautiful. We woke early, walked out on the balcony, and admired the busy splendor of New Orleans.

We then hit the streets, hungry, aiming for Cafe du Monde and some Ben Yays.

Unfortunately, Cafe du Monde held a eighteen-hour wait, so we decided to cruise down Decatur to grub at less conspicuous establishment. Luckily, we found one quickly, and this time, the wait was only one hour. Cafe dude Mondey Mondey had no vacant tables inside, but they did have one empty chair and one rickety stool, so I let my family take those whilst I stood outside to sweat and admire Willie and Poor Boys who were playing out in the street. I had no nickels, though I did tap my feet. Soon, someone shouted, "Freebird!" Willie glared, grabbed his guitar and his bag o' tricks, and left.

Soon to take his place in what must have been a coveted spot was a sausage swallower. See the picture below? See what he's doing? He's already taken in half of it. He pushed the entire sausage down his throat, too, and pulled it back up. He asked if anyone then wanted a bite, but no one took him up on his offer.

I almost did, though. My stomach was rumbling, and I was about to walk over and grab that summer sausage, but at that time, Foot Foot told me that there was a spot open in the line. Some old geezer had seemingly fainted from heat exhaustion, and while the other people in line were tending to him, Foot Foot and I jumped at the opening, ordered our Ben Yays, and then we feigned concern. That's the way it's done in the Big Easy.

A half hour later, our Ben Yays arrived about the time the ambulance did outside. We hurried past the EMTs, and we ate as we walked the streets, headed to the famous aquarium (I forget its name). On our way there, we ah-spied a wedding procession with an authentic New Orleans jazz band leading the way, playing a tune somebody told me was called the Second Line (I guess the couple couldn't afford the First Line).

After the procession processed by, we continued on our way, and as we passed by the park, we saw...now get this...MICHAEL JACKSON! Yes, it was really him! He had smeared grease paint on his face in order to disguise himself from the crowd, but it was the King of Pop, alright. We looked at his wardrobe, and seeing the similarity between it and the outfits the cheap wedding band wore, Nicholas told him, "Your band left you up there. Why did they do that? That wasn't very nice!"

Mike told him, "Why do they do me that way? It's just human nature. I gotta get my back up off the wall, now. Bye bye, pretty young thing." He left. I was just a tad nonplussed by his comment, but, hey, it's Michael Jackson...I'm sure he meant nothing untoward.

We arrived at the aquarium, I was instantly attacked by the painful memory of when, three years prior, we lost a student to the waters of the aquarium. Mr. Daryll "D-Bo" Willis (pictured below, in the last photograph taken of him, in his last moments). May he rest in peace.

Foot Foot and Nicholas nearly lost their lives their, too. The world's largest Great White (and no, I'm not talking about Jack Russell's recent weight gain) was on exhibit, and it began to swallow whole my family.

Luckily, I was there with my authentic Peter Quint harpoon (w/spring-loaded floatation barrel), and my family is still with me to this day. The shark, however, swims with the fishes.

After that narrow escape, we happened upon an enchanted swamp there at the aquarium, and Nicholas rode one of the hoodoo hop toads. Later, Nicholas developed a severe case of wart on his lower extremities, but we contacted Marie LaVeau's great-great-grandson Remy LeBeau via v-mail, and she gave us a cure for only $17.99. It worked, too.

The last exhibit (one that has since been closed) we visited in the museum was called the Taste of New Orleans. Rather than sample of the aquatic delicasees, a sample was almost made of Nicholas! One of the three cooks gave Nicholas a bite of newt, and he spat it out. Well, the cook didn't like that poor display of manners, no sir. She reached out and grabbed his toungue, and put him in the pot, saying, "If you don't like eye of newt, then how about eye of Nick?" Foot Foot decided she prefered the newt, so she grabbed Nicholas, and we exited the aquarium.

As soon as we sat foot outside, we saw the late voodoo priestess herself, Marie LaVeau, helming a voodoo carriage down Canal street.

Nicholas deemed the queen too skinny for his personal proclivities, so we scooted over to St. Charles to take a streetcar all down the line and back.

Nicholas soon grew worried that he would be unable himself to cast a spell of redress against the chef that offended his person, so he asked for my assistance. Against an average person, one not so inclined to the ways of hoodoo and voodoo--some call them "muggles", but I've always termed 'em, "doo-doos"--I would have been able to merely scratch my nether regions in order to pester a pernicious person, but against those wise in the ways of vaudois, a needed some assistance myself.

I stopped by the Livre Imaginaire bookstore at 9 3/4 Bienville, and I consulted a consortium of texts legitimate, illegitimate, and not quite sure anymore 'cause my parents are both caucasian but I'm not. After burning the midnight oil and the beds that they burned, I remembered the spell that nearly took the life--and did take the arm--of one of my former students on our last senior trip to New Orleans.

The senior class had taken a bayou tour, and the tour guide--Prince Glenn Dio (and Prince was his given name, too) was somewhat short of height (as well as temper). Garrison Jim--the aformentioned student--normally very genial and gregarious, had some fun at the tour guide's lack of verticality, and the tour guide cursed him...in both senses of the word! Soon, as we came upon an alligator, the tour guide asked Garrison if he'd like to volunteer to feed the sea creature, and Garrison accepted. As soon as Garrison leaned over and held the scum for the gator to get, the reptile lept past the scum and swallowed Garrison's right arm. And bit down. The gator took Garrison's arm down into the depths with him, and we had to rush back to the shore to get Garrison to the hospital on a speed boat that would take him down the bayou to a nearby medical clinic (after seeing it later, I hesitate to call it a hospital).

Since that particular incident was so nasty and unfortunate, I felt it would be appropriate to use that particular curse--locally called the "Gator Getter"--to take revenge upon that nasty and unfortunate woman (I shan't call her a "lady") who tried to make Irish stew out of me boy. When I arrived back at the bed minus breakfast, I told Nicholas not to worry, that I'd taken the liberty of cursing the hag myself (and I did). He smiled and asked for Cheetos, so I knew all was well in his world. I didn't want him to yet match wits with the strange and supernatual forces that lay within the Vieux Carre. I'd already lost enough children to the Quarter, and I didn't plan to lose anymore.

Not only did Garrison suffer the loss of his arm and D-Bo the loss of his life, but the first group of seniors Foot Foot and I took to New Orleans suffered their own loss. The loss of their own persons. Let me explain.

In May of 2003, I took my first group of seniors to New Orleans. One week after we left, I came home...with none of them. The last night of our trip, we came upon a group of what-looked-like tourists gathered in small groups outside of O'Flahety's Irish Pub. In each of these groups stood tour guides, sounding like carnival barkers as they rounded their individual groups together, telling them to stay with each other and make sure they had their stickers on. I looked at these people, and, indeed, each one had a sticker affixed to his or her chest depicting the name of the tour company (I think it was called Bourban Go Boo). My seniors asked if they could join one of these little groups, and I looked around, and one of the guides had just laid a packet of stickers on a cart behind him. I picked up the packet and distributed them to my group. We then joined along, and strolled throughout the streets with our tour guide---Sheleighly Shane--leading the way.

Oh, the stories he could tell...the Axeman, the Boogyeman, the Octoroon Mistress, Madame Minieurcanal, the Phantom of Jackson Square, the Flaming Tomb, the S.S. Watertown, the Seaman's Bethel, the St. Louis Cathedral, the Le Petit Theatre, Antoine's, the Royal Cafe, the Andrew Jackson, the Griffon House, the Beauregard-Keys House, the Gardette-LePrete Mansion, the Devil's Mansion, and, of course, the most famous haunted house in New Orleans: the LaLaurie Mansion (pictured below--my picture, too!):

Long story short ('cause to get the full, chilling effect of this story, one really needs to either be in front of the house to hear it or hear it told by an expert storyteller. Since this is the internet, and I'm obviously not the latter, I'm giving the thirty-second summary), Madame Delphine LaLaurie kept a house full of slaves, tortured them, experimented on them, deforming and defiling their bodies. One day, the house caught fire, and as firemen and other went through the house putting out the flames, they found a door they could not breach for it was locked. They broke it down and found dozens of slaves chained to walls and tables, and a couple of them in cages. They found a few dead. The slaves were led out of the house, and when the public discovered what Madame LaLaurie had done to them, they were outraged and began to storm the house. Madame LaLaurie escaped, though. She never returned. The house was sold, but from the moment the next owner spent his first night in the house, the haunting began.

Nearly one-hundred years later and several owners later, the house was sold (for the umpteenth time), and the new owners this time decided to almost completely remodel the house. When they started working on the second story, they noticed strange smells coming from the room where Madame LaLaurie tortured her slaves. The new owners began ripping up the floor planks, and they discovered nearly one-hundred dead bodies buried there, underneath the second story floorboards.

The complete details of the story are much more heinous and disgusting than what I've revealed here, and our entire crew was taken aback by it, horrified and disturbed. Some, however, were so fascinated with the story that they lingered there on 1140 Royal to wait and see if they could hear or see anything of a spectral nature. They were all well-mannered kids, and--hey--it was New Orleans, so what could possibly happen to them here, right? I allowed them to stay behind as the rest of us followed Sheleighly Steve. That group--five kids, total--we never saw again. They're still missing.

Our tour ended that night outside the oldest building in the Mississippi River Vally (and the only surviving French-colonial building in the United States), the Ursuline Convent. Back when Louisiana was still a colony, prostitution was legal in New Orleans, and the city's criminal element ran rampant, and Governor Bienville sent to France for help, help that arrived in the form of twleve nuns, who came to New Orleans to educate, set up orphanges, and help a few of the locals get religion. The nuns--and Governor Bienville--soon realized they needed respectable women (previously, only lower-class women were shipped, and they were generally full of disease, and thus they either couldn't reproduce or didn't live long enough afterwards to take care of the children) to make honest men of those who weren't, so in 1721 the first of several boatloads of girls arrived from France (a practice that would continue until 1758) in tow with their luggage...shaped in the form of a casket--and hence came known as the Casket Girls. These girls first took room in the third story of the convent.

Many of the Casket Girls didn't fare as well as hoped, and after numerous instances of abuse and rape, these girls were shipped back to France. However, their caskets were not sent back with them. After the last group of Casket Girls returned to France, all of the third-story windows were nailed shut, and for each window was used one-hundred nails--each one blessed by the Pope himself. Rumors abounded, of course, as to why these windows would need nailing shut, especially considering the heat during that time period (pre-air conditioning era), why so many, and why each needed to be blessed by the Pope himself.

In the late '70s, two reporters from The New York Times were in New Orleans, and they had heard the rumors of the Ursuline convent, so they decided to camp out in front of the convent for three nights in a row. According to their journals, the first two nights they noticed nothing, but on the third night, they looked up and noticed a window open on the third floor. This information was the last thing noted in their journals. The next day, they were found dead. Their bodies were completely empty of blood.

After hearing this story, our group made its way back to our hotel. The seniors were--naturally--straggling behind Foot Foot and me, talking amongst themselves, and one Cheyanna Dixon (seen below on the first row in the white tee-shirt), asked me if they could all return to the sidewalk in front of the convent to watch the windows. Foot Foot and I both said sure, for it was hours before curfew anyway. Foot Foot then asked us to pose for a picture before they left, as this was our last night in New Orleans. For that group seen in the picture below, it truly was their last night. We never saw them again after that moment. We still don't know where they are. We returned home alone (and, strangely enough, never went on a senior trip again, either).

Discussing these lost seniors with Foot Foot, we both grew forlorn, and we decided to cut our own family trip short. Nicholas, though, overheard some of our conversation, and he asked if he could help look for them. We told him no, but he was insistent, and he suggested we go to the harbor, that perhaps we could see them there. Well, we walked there, but we saw no sign of them.

Nicholas then told me to ask the riverboat captains if they'd be willing to give us any information. I told him I didn't think they'd know, and if they did, they might not be willing to share their knowledge, but Nicholas stated that the people on the river are happy to give. Since he was correct about the openness of shipyard skippers, I climbed aboard every ferry on that side of the Gulf of Mexico, and none had heard or seen any of our seniors. The captains did, though, agree to share with me a smoke of their pipes. They even let Nicholas steer their ships whilst they each emptied bottles of peppermint schnapps. Ahh...life on the river. I'm glad I listened to Nicholas, as the boat rides lifted my spirits, and I soon forgot about the lost seniors altogether. Thanks, buddy, I needed that. The Little River Band was right: it was time (at that time) for a cool change.

Refreshed, the three of us walked back to our bed minus breakfast, ate our supper of baloney and crackers, and hurried off to sleep, exhausted from all the searching and pondering. The next morning, we woke early as to get home as soon as possible. We enjoyed our stay in New Orleans, but we were homesick. We packed our luggage, and I carried all downstairs and out to the Jeep. I pulled our vehicle around front, and I waited for about fifteen minutes for Foot Foot and Nicholas. They didn't walk out with me because Foot Foot had some last minute intestinal difficulties which she had to tend to. I didn't mind the wait, though. It was nice just watching the people walk by.

They soon came to the Jeep, stepped in, and we drove away, arriving home a mere four hours later. The next day, we took the film to Wal-Mart to get developed (this was back in the day before we were able to use a digital camera). Three days later, we picked it up, and we laughed and smiled at the photographs...all except the last one. That last one is of Foot Foot and Nicholas leaving our bed minus breakfast to go home that last day. What was so disconcerting about that picture?

I didn't take it. I was in the Jeep. The camera...was with me.

The Twelve Days of Classic Comic Covers, Day Twelve

Day 12: Showcase #94 - Jim Aparo, pencils and inks (1977).



The inevitability of death and maxim/cliché of "life goes on" struck me cold in the summer before first grade when I saw this cover. I knew what death was, but--up until that point--hadn't known anybody that had died; in fact, I'd never even been to a funeral before. This cover, though, stuck with me, and for the next several years, whenever my mother would warn me not to do something 'cause I might break my neck and die, my mind flashed back to this cover, and I was always stilled, 'cause I knew that I was to die some day, and that when I did, the world would continue spinning madly on, and that people would press forward with their lives, and I that, of course, would not.

When these motherly admonitions occurred, I'd soon fish out this comic (still got it, too), and I'd notice how the new members of the Doom Patrol (if their name didn't spell out their fate, then the lettering of the word Doom on the cover certainly did) were huddled together behind the grave, impatient, ready for the new Robotman (well, at least a new Robotman frame) to dump the old on so that they could move on. That's what life and death is like, I thought.

Other times, I'd return to this cover, and I'd notice that the eyes of the original Robotman weren't quite lifeless--not like the cold, uncaring, inhuman slits of the the new shell; no, they were far from it. Those eyes display intense sorrow and grief. And the mouth--upside down as it is, it's a grimace (though, conversely and almost perversely, if you turn the comic upside down, then the grimace turns into a grin), further conveying not just the tragedy of the immediate situation, but the tragedy of life itself. What's a fate worse than death? One in which death is not final, one in which death is so much worse than life. On top of that, nobody really cares. Just look at the new Robotman's eyeslits.

Once I realized the ramifications of what stood behind that gaze, I stood numbstruck, and ever since, I've been a fatalistic fellow. Revelations marked the majority of my non-comic, non-required reading time for most of the first and second and third grades. I'd ask my parents question after question concerning doomsday, but their answers were either falsely (to me) optimistic or noncommittal. I was sure I was damned, ripe for the picking, and so I attended church and read my Bible and prayed as much as an elementary-school student could, and in ninth grade, a very close friend died, in a car wreck, killed by a drunk driver, and as I was at his funeral, I looked at the stoic gazes all around, and noticed how everyone just seemed to chitter-chat once my friend's body was committed to the earth, and they seemed to resume normal activity, and I thought about the new Doom Patrol, and their gaze, and I was sure then--as I'd felt since I first saw this when I was six-and-a-half--that the artist was a prophet of doom, and that somehow--somehow--I was at fault.

I returned home from the funeral, went to my room, and I pulled out this comic, and Cliff Steele's eyes were pleading with me, yet there was nothing I could do. I had sinned, and my friend had paid for it, and Robotman was damning me...but it didn't matter anyway, for Reagan was in his last term, and he was sure to cause worldwide nuclear destruction before he last office, just as many of my fellow churchgoers had predicted and prayed for (and I was a Methodist!), and so I decided to put away my comics for good since we all were doomed anyway; no joy could come from reading a comic for those eyes would always bore back at me no matter who drew the comic I looked at. Comic books were too adult, too depressing, so I put them away forever, so I that I could delve into much more lighthearted and life-affirming material: Marlowe, Hawthorne, Poe, and Dostoevsky. Those authors, to me, got it. They knew, too, that we were all doomed anyway, so why not have a little fun? This Jim Aparo guy...looked death straight in her gloomy eyes and did not flinch.

The Twelve Days of Classic Comic Covers, Day Eleven

Day 11: Batman #291 - Jim Aparo, pencils and inks (1977).



Preceded by a comic in which I truly believed that Batman could die (the splash page showed Batman, chained to a wall, with the Skull Duggers skull ray--from a cube--boring into his head, and Batman looked like he was in the worst torment ever), this one--by my Batman artist--promised that the Batman would die. And I believed it. It scared me. Not in the nightmare kind-of way; no, more so in the shaken-to-my-core kind-of way. Plus, Batman would, according to the cover, not R.I.P. He, like Carrie White, would burn in Hell. And that frightened me, too, for I was a big believer in Hell, and if the Batman were to go there--and he was a hero--then what hope would I have? Philosophically, this one--and my number one pick--changed my view of life.

The Twelve Days of Classic Comic Covers, Day Ten

Day 10: Superman vs. The Amazing Spider-Man - Carmine Infantino, layouts; Ross Andru, pencils; Dick Giordano, inks (1976).



I believe its iconic value speaks for itself, as does Infantino's fantastic design (what perspective!), but the reason I place this one this high is because for thirty years this was my holy grail, the one comic I wanted so badly but could not find. This comic sparked the only time I searched multiple comic book outlets for weeks on end trying to find one book. And I never found it. Not during my childhood, anyway. I did, though, finally procure myself a copy two years ago. And I've never read it. Stupid, yeah, but I'm afraid reading it would only disappoint what for thirty years was in my mind the end-all and beat-all of all comic books.

The Twelve Days of Classic Comic Covers, Day Nine

Day 9: X-Men #137 - John Byrne pencils, Terry Austin inks (1980).



As I stated before, John Byrne was my favorite artist when I was a child. His work--though undoubtedly at least partially dictated by script/storyline--always contained elements of the tragic, of those fighting forces they cannot fully overcome, and this tragic motif, combined with Byrne's style of Adams-like realism mixed with Kirby/Kane-type dramatics, clicked with me on a personal level (which I'll delve into with my top two choices), and nothing clicked so much as did this cover.

Also, as I have mentioned, I lost 90% of my comics collection to silverfish. This one, however, I did not lose. This one, I kept in my room. I never stored it away with the rest of the comics because, to me, this one was special. Of course, the high regard I held for this comic wasn't solely based on cover appeal nor solely on Byrne's artwork. This story, to me, was--comics or not--the most realistic story I had read up into that point, and it reflected my own piss-and-vinegar view of the world. Yes, I thought, someone finally got it right. This is the way the world will end: tragically. Yet, there on the cover, is not a picture of Jean Grey dead...or dying...or a hand laid out with a cuff nearby...nor an all-black cover. Nope. The cover shows Jean Grey, along with one of two of my childhood heroes, fighting the end that she brought on herself. She did not go gently unto that goodnight, even though she knew the goodnight was sure to come. Philosophically, this cover (along with the story inside) rang truer to me (then) than any comic cover has since.

The Twelve Days of Classic Comic Covers, Day Eight

Day 8: Thor #264 - Walt Simonson, pencils; Joe Sinnot, inks (1977).



Six years before he would break new ground with his singular style on the title (as well as the text of the title itself) in issue #337, Walt Simonson drew this doozy of a cover, with the Loki looming over the image of a embattled thunder god, apparently about to be snatched and eaten by the scariest googly-eyed frost giant I've ever seen. Simonson's impressive design skills were already at work here, using the speed lines from Mjolnir to separate Loki from his brother's battle (though I wonder what Simonson was thinking in using those computer-like backgrounds...maybe a tribute to Kirby, possibly). Sinnot's inks here keeps the cover rooted in the Marvel house style, and his lines are strong.

This one gave me the willies, as that frost giant looked very similar to a great uncle of mine whom I'd only see on occasion, always hovering over the potato salad with his cane at the ready.

The Twelve Days of Classic Comic Covers, Day Seven

Day 7: Spider-Woman #6 - Carmine Infantino, pencils; Steve Leialoha, inks (1978)

I first learned babies came from in the first grade (on the same day I discovered the true identity of Santa Claus, too). I understood the physics behind the male/female union, but I never understood the motivation. "Ick," I remember thinking. Later that year, I saw this cover, and everything made perfect sense. Spider-Woman's costume design has always been a provocative one, as the piping in the front accentuates the positives, but never have her assets been on a more, uh, selective display as they are, as the ropes not only bind her, they also...well...just look. William Moulton Marston would have been so proud.

The Twelve Days of Classic Comic Covers, Day Six

Day 6: Secrets of the Haunted House #6 - Bernie Wrightson, pencils & inks (1975)

I now give you a cover that frightened me so badly that not only did it haunt my dreams for years (and I'm not exaggerating), but it also scared me so that I couldn't buy it. Heck, I couldn't even flip it open. I never touched it (though I did finally buy it a few years back). I just saw it there in the rack, and I froze, transfixed. Wrightson--whose work I've come to adore--nails it oh so simply, with that outreaching arm inviting horrors unimaginable inside that gourd. And the complete black background commanded the eye to the center image, demanding you stare into the abyss. John Carpenter--eat your heart out.

The Twelve Days of Classic Comic Covers, Day Five

Day 5: Avengers #181 - George Perez, pencils; Terry Austin, inks (1979)

Growing up, I had two favorite comic artists: John Byrne and everyone else. Near the top among the latter, though, was George Perez. I knew that I'd have to pick a Perez for this list, but I've seen other Perez covers that--from an artistic perspective--I think are better than this one. BUT--I also wanted to have a cover that depicted a large conglomeration of heroes, and though I had several shortlisted (and some I think are better than this one), this is the one that combined Perez (with the great Terry Austin) with the large group shot (which is what he's famed for, anyway). There's also the thrill--especially when I first saw it in the spinner rack--of wondering whom the seven would be. I remember taking it to my grandmother's house, and just staring, wondering whom I'd pick. Sometimes, I still do.

The Twelve Days of Classic Comic Covers, Day Four

Day 4: The Flash #242 - Ernie Chan, pencils & inks (1975)

I was a stupid kid (and my IQ ain't risen since then, either). Anyone of you remember Zips sneakers? If so, remember the commercial? I do. I believed that if my parents bought me some Zips, that I could run as fast as those kids on that commercial, as fast as, say, the Flash.

I also believed that if I stuck my finger to the ground,

I could not only eliminate the Flash (should he ever come running 'round the corner), but anyone else, too. And I tried. It didn't work on my little sister, and it didn't work on my mom when she came running after me when I drove my bicycle too far down the sidewalk near a busy street. I stopped opposite Conn's Mini-Mart, and I kept touching my finger to the ground, but she kept coming (though once I got off my bike, she had stopped running, so I thought at the time that maybe it partially worked).

After a whooping of the tail, I went back inside and studied the cover again, to see if I'd perhaps used the wrong technique. I studied the Ernie Chan (pencils and inks) cover over and over, my wee brain awed by the stunned Flash--all in red, outlined in white and then yellow, against a stark black background--separated from the woman from the Electric Gang by the division between black background and grey stone wall. Best of all wasn't the lady's ghostlike silhouette, but her arm thrust into the foreground, the contrast giving the arm a lifelike dimension, so much so that I was positive a real person could truly eliminate the Flash...though eliminating my mother was a different story.

The Twelve Days of Classic Comic Covers, Day Three

Day 3: Weird War Tales #89 - Jim Starlin, pencils & inks (1980)

What's more evil than Nazis? Why, Nazi gorillas, of course! I had to have a primate pick on my list, and I was tempted to go with Bernard Baily's bizarre Gorilla Witch from Strange Adventures # 186, but I didn't want to step outside the silly parameters I set for myself (only including covers that grabbed me when comics first grabbed me), and this one's a much more powerful piece, anyway.

Starlin uses his compositional design style well, what with the top areas of white to set off the overhanging Nazi flag, and the five Primate Platoon soldiers (wonderfully colored, too, as the light blue provides a stark contrast with the red swastikas and the dark fur) replicate the center and the five points of the flag. And those suckers look fierce, too. This one pounced on me from the moment I walked into the store (as the spinner rack was only about five feet from the door), and it still won't get its damned dirty ape paws off me.

The Twelve Days of Classic Comic Covers, Day Two

Day 2: Scooby Doo Mystery Comics #30 - Dan Spiegle, pencils/inks (1975 ).

I chose this cover not so much because I loved Scooby Doo (though I did), but because of the ghostly Native American chief pictured, and I'll tell you why this one caught my eye. My parents' friends lived a few houses down from my grandmother, and they had a son--Jay--near my age. One weekend, I walked down to Jay's house, and he wanted to play cowboys and Indians. Sounded fine with me. He handed me a pair of guns, a holster, and a hat, and he put the same on himself. I asked him who was going to play the Indian, and he told me that he knew a [I]real[/I] Indian. I wasn't that amazed, because I had seen plenty of real Indians, as my father (then) worked for the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians.

Well, we went into his back yard, crossed over the fence, and there--on top of a nearby hill--was an Indian boy, in full regalia: face paint, feathers, the works. And he had a bow and arrow. And he was aiming at us. And he didn't move. Jay called out to him (though I don't remember what he said), and the boy didn't move. I asked Jay why he wasn't moving, and Jay said he didn't know. Jay called out to him one more time, and he still didn't move. Jay said something along the lines of "I guess he doesn't want to play. Let's go back." We did. But I chanced a look back right before we walked out of sight, and the boy was still there, only he had pivoted to where he was still pointing the arrow at us. At me!

Gave me nightmares for years. Seeing this cover in the spinner rack (and, of course, I've still got the comic) a few weeks/months later scared me still (at least for a few seconds). A still get a case of the willies if I stare at it too long.

The Twelve Days of Classic Comic Covers, Day One

Two weeks ago, on the Comic Book Resources Classic Comics forums, Kurt Mitchell, a contributor to Roy Thomas's All-Star Companion books (which can be purchased from TwoMorrows Publishing), initiated his annual Twelve Days of Classic Comics Christmas theads, and this year, the idea focused on favorite comic-book covers that were at least twenty-years old. I participated this year, and I've decided to share my ramblings. You can check out other posters' favorites here. Rather than make one gigantic post, I've decided to split these up into twelve separate posts.

Day 1: Nostalgia will be the colorist on all my covers, as I travel back to the spinner rack at Conn's Mini-Mart just half-a-block up from my grandparents' house. My aunt would take me there every Saturday, and I could buy just about anything I wanted. I stayed with my grandparents every weekend, and they didn't have much money, but there was always enough for me to buy comics. They (the comics) made me happy, and they kept me from bugging my relatives. So, with that said, my list is comprised of my personal favorites, regardless of whether or not any artistic merit could be lauded on the covers; I picked the ones that made me shout "Whee!" or "Oh my God!" on the inside when I first saw them on the rack.

With that disclaimer (which I think may be needed for this first pick, and maybe the second one, too), I give you:

The New Krofft Supershow #1 (1978)
Sure, the cover bears no drawing or inking, but those snapshots of Wildboy and Cindy (from the Bigfoot and Wildboy segment), the wildy-rockin' Dr. Kool and the Kongs (who--along with my dad and KISS--were my inspirations to become a musician), the cooler-than-Speedy talking-car Wonderbug, and the magical genie Mongo made my little heart a'flutter with joy, as I knew the comic had to be as exciting as the show. Right? Right?

The Hardy Fall Festival of Fun Day of Fun, Part Four

After beating a hasty retreat from Stuckey's Bridge, we quickly hightailed it to Meridian. The haints had given us the hungries, so we stopped at Cracker Barrell--where we'd begin eating only an hour after we arrived there. The place was as busy as I've ever seen it, and we had to wait thirty minutes in the gift shop trying to keep Georgia from breaking anything too expensive. After we sat down, Foot Foot and I decided to see how patient our children could be, so we ordered the slowest-cooking, longest-wait-time item on the menu: bigthick steaks--well done. Forty minutes later--after Foot Foot and I laughed ourselves silly watching Georgia throw licked-wet sugar and Sweet & Low packets at the foreheads of the patrons in all the surrounding tables and Nicholas unearth every nugget o' gold in every orivice and crevice, our food arrived; we ate it all in five minutes flat (I timed it), with Foot Foot finishing first.

After the gorge, we drove to nearby Marion to visit the Haunted Trail. In someone's front yard, we saw a wrecker, orange light flashing a warning and invitation to brave backroads travelers. The beacon worked as warning for us, as Foot Foot deemed it as a demarcation of a crime scene, and did I want to partake in that? Yes, I did, for I had my trusty Avengers membership card that would grant me security clearance, but my wife thought that though, yes, I did indeed have justifiable jurisdiction and was surely experienced and adept enough--as an Avenger--to handle the case, the children just might be put in harm's way, and that was not acceptable.

So, we turned around and headed back, deflated and defeated, but--hey! What's that? A spook in the front yard? No cop cars? Well, ah-hah, there we have it, and a' haunting we will go! I pulled into the yard and right by the port-a-john (in case the quicky-digested steak worked its way through Foot Foot's digestive system before it was time to, uh, go). Since Georgia was asleep, Foot Foot decided to stay in the Jeep to hold watch, while Nicholas and I disembarked. Walking over to the ticket table, I asked my son if he was too scared to go, and that it was alright if he was, that we could just go back home. He stopped in his tracks and told me to look in his face. I did so, and he laughed in my face, telling me then that he was going to laugh in the face of fear just like he had just done in mine--and he was going to hold my arm the whole way, too, just to make sure I wouldn't run away screaming. He'd be there for me, he told me.
We approached the ticket table, paid our admittance, and the young lady taking our money asked us how brave we were. I told her, "Not very," but Nicholas told the woman not to listen to that freak hippie, and that we were so brave that we'd go it alone, no need for the comfort of strangers. The girl peered deeply into his eyes and furrowed her brows, but Nicholas was blue steel, and the ticket taker started to sweat. She averted her eyes, beaten by the redhead, and she signaled her compatriots on her CB that Fat Man and Little Boy were on their way, for them--her peers--to drop the bomb on us, to hold nothing back. Nicholas gave her a wink and an upward nod of the head, and we walked through the entrance.

The first object I noticed was a tombstone that read, "Barry D. Live." A skeletal hand was reaching out from the earf, and I closed my eyes at the terror--and didn't open them for the remainder of the three-hour tour through the seven levels of Hell. Growls, wails, screams for our souls, cries for skin and blood and brain, deep-throated declarations of imminent injury, torturous moans of pain promised and received: all these sounds reverberating through my eardrums and calling forth evil imagery of Boschian and Dorian depravity. Throughout our wanderings, Nicholas held steadfast in resolve as I held tightly to his arm (so tightly that I left deep bruises), and my son never uttered a peep of cowardice, never any evidence of fear. I, o the other hand, never opened my eyes until we--his Virgil to my Dante--emerged unscathed on the other side; thus, I have no pictures to proffer, other than the one (pre-entrance) above and the one (with Mr. Tree) below, and in both cases, I have masked evidence of how frightened I was.

After leaving The Haunted Trail, we stopped at a convenience store to gas up and grab some strong cups of coffee. When I finished filling the tank, I stepped into the Jeep and noticed that Nicholas was sitting up straight with a blank expression on his face. I asked him if anything was wrong, but he didn't respond. Foot Foot shrugged her shoulders, and I drove away. Before we left Marion's city limits, Nicholas started moaning. Foot Foot and I looked back,

and Nicholas reached out his arm to grab Foot Foot! She dodged his initial reach, but he was quick and prepared, and when she leaned left, he grabbed her head with his other hand. He moaned louder and louder, and Foot Foot tried to break free, bumping into me, making me lose momentary control of the vehicle. The Jeep swirved and skuttered and skittered, and Foot Foot's camera (for the only time it is free of her hand is when I pry it away from her at bedtime) started taking pictures, the flash popping brightly in all directions, and I was blinded.

I saw an open field just before the last flash blinded my eyes, and I pulled over, jumping a curb in the process, jarring Nicholas (and Foot Foot) in the process. I stopped the Jeep, and I asked Foot Foot if she was okay. She groaned and complained and nagged about my driving, so I knew she was just fine. I looked back to tend to Nicholas, and he was rubbing his head. "Son," I asked him, "Son, are you alright?" He rubbed his head some more, and he moaned...but this time his moan was more normal, less gutteral and low pitched.

"Dad?" he asked.

"Yes, son?"

"Dad...." His quizzical countenance morphed into a sly grin. "Do you wanna see something really scary?"

The Hardy Fall Festival Fun Day of Fun, Part Three

The Hardy Fall Festival Fun Day of Fun continued as we four rolled through Chunky, onto Meridian, back to Enterprise, back the other way to Hickory, and finally (after two hours of confused driving, lost as could be) to our destination: Stuckey's Bridge.
Stuckey's Bridge--overlooking the Chunky River on Stuckey's Bridge Road in Chunky--got it's name from the fellow who operated an inn on the banks of the Chunky River during the Civil War era. After the War was over, Stuckey's profits--for the obvious reasons--plummeted, and the proprietor resorted to murdering his few guests for their coin and dumping the bodies at night 'neath the nearby bridge. The townfolk eventually caught wind of Stuckey's misdeeds, and they took to torch and pitchfork and snatched the man from his house, took him to the bridge, and hanged him by the neck until dead. Since, rumors have abounded with sightings of ghostly manifestations of lights, nooses, and free-floating bodies on or near that bridge (which, by the way, is on the National Register of Historic Places).
When I first told Nicholas this story, he grew excited and eager, but when we arrived, parked, and walked toward the bridge, Nicholas stayed behind in the Jeep, reluctant and uneasy. As we approached the first plank, I looked back and asked Nicholas if he realized he was by himself. He looked around, and then ran our way. On the bridge stood a comfortably-dressed couple, the Daphigments, who told us that they rented canoes for use on the Chunky River, and that they lived in a nearby cabin, and that--especially in October--they were deputized to patrol the bridge and ward off youngsters who tended to vandalize on weekends or on week nights. They talked for a bit more, told us more about their personal lives, and they let us take their picture (below, they're in-between Nicholas and me--wait...there's no one between Nicholas and me in that picture? What gives?)

They even allowed us to drive over the bridge! A sign was posted a half-mile back on Stuckey's Bridge Road stating the bridge was closed for thru-traffic, but the Daphigments told us they posted that sign to keep out the nearby college kids, that the bridge was safe. Foot Foot looked a little wary, but the kids wanted to ride over, so we compromised. Foot Foot and Nicholas crossed over to the other side of the bridge, while Georgia and I returned to the Jeep. I strapped Georgia in her car-seat, and I glanced across the bridge to see that Foot Foot, Nicholas, and the Daphigments were safely on the other side; Foot Foot and Nicholas were, but the Daphigments weren't there. Oh, well. Maybe they went back home.
I hopped in the Jeep and started driving across. Foot Foot took the picture above, and then she and Nicholas walked down to a lower embankment to get a picture of the bridge from a different point of view. After crossing the bridge--whose iron girders cried and whined from about the half-way point on, scaring the fool out of me--I parked it on the other side, got Georgia out, and saw Foot Foot and Nicholas walking up from the embankment. Foot Foot asked me to walk down there, look at the bridge, and see if I notice anything unusual. I followed orders, and I returned, noting that I had not seen anything out of the ordinary. Why? Had she? She had not, but Nicholas had. I asked my son what he'd thought he'd seen, and after hitting me for doubting him, he told me he'd seen a noose hanging from the bridge. I asked him if he was trying to scare us, but he reassured me (by hitting me again) that he wasn't. I walked down the embankment again, but I saw no rope anywhere on the bridge. I asked Foot Foot to show me the picture she took, and we looked at it, and good googly-moogly--Nicholas was right!

Foot Foot looked at me and told me it was time to go; I agreed. I told her and Nicholas to quickly get in the Jeep, but she refused, and she took Georgia from my hand and picked her up, and she told Nicholas to hurry and run with them across the bridge. I asked her to wait, to get in the Jeep, but she'd have none of it; they were already scooting back across the bridge. I hopped in the Jeep, backed it up, and crossed the bridge, but I was unable to make it completely to the other side, for Foot Foot was standing at the foot, in the center, taking my picture, not letting me cross. I felt like Washington Irving's schoolteacher, coming so close to crossing the bridge, with certain doom behind me. I honked and yelled, yet she kept taking my picture. Feeling the urgent need to cross the threshhold, I put the Jeep in neurtal and revved it hard, and that sent Penny running backwards. Thank goodness. I jerked the Jeep back to drive and finally made it back to solid earf.

Foot Foot and the children got in, and we hightailed it out of there. I asked my wife why she wouldn't let me cross, why she took so many pictures right then, and she told me that when the Jeep started crossing the bridge, she heard the iron singing, and she was sure the bridge would collapse. So why didn't she hurry and get out of the way so I could cross? She said that she was so sure I wouldn't, that she wanted to have some pictures of me to show to the children in case they ever forgot what I looked like. Why so many pictures, though, of the same shot? She said she didn't like the lighting in the first one, the focus in the second one, my hair was too disheveled in the third, etc....Willfully ignoring my wife's stated preference of the art of photography over the life of her husband, I asked her whatever happened to the Daphigments. She said that she was going to ask me the same thing, that the last she saw of them was when Georgia and I left to go get in the Jeep to drive it across the bridge, that the older couple walked with us. I told her that I saw them walking with her and Nicholas. We shared a suspicious look, and she checked the picture she took of the Daphigments with the kids and me, and--you saw it above--the Daphigments were gone!

Later tonight, the actual finarle of our trip!

The Hardy Fall Festival Fun Day of Fun, Part Two

I looked around, yet I saw no one. I stood silent for a moment more, and then I resumed looking for Georgia. I turned the corner, and lo and behold there she stood, all five feet of her. "Daddy!" she exclaimed, and she came running to me. When she hugged me, we both toppled over, so unexpected I was for the impact of her newfound girth. "Daddy, wish toll me go up or she make me stan in a cuhnah!" she said. I asked her where this witch was, and she pointed to the end of the path. "Daddy!" she said again, and hugged me again, just as I was rising, only to lose my balance with her atop and fall again. "I wanna go punkin pash. Go punkin pash, Daddy!" I told her that we would, but asked her if anyone else was with the witch. She nodded. I asked her who, and she said, "E walks bind woahs. I scayahed, Daddy." With that, I got up and took her hand and ran back towards the exit, where we saw Foot Foot and Nicholas, waiting just outside the maze.

"Georgia!" Foot Foot shouted.

"Mommy!" Georgia resonded, and she tackled her mother just as she tackled me. Nicholas stood nearby, jaw unhinged and eyes agape, and Foot Foot started to cry, asking me what happened. Georgia told her the same thing she told me, and Foot Foot, fully weeping by now, asked me what we should do. I told her that the first thing needed to be to get a picture. Foot Foot jumped up and shouted, "Me! Me! I wanna take the picture! I wanna take it! We sat Nicholas next to her for contrast, and Penny snapped. The first result is below:

She took another shot immediately after, and then a third, a fourth, a fifth, up until I lost count because I couldn't take my eyes from Georgia's resultant transformation with each snapshot, losing two-or-so inches with each photograph (each of which, mysteriously, never turned out). "Andy," Foot Foot asked, "are you seeing this? Is she...."

"Daddy!" Georgia cried, "I don' wanna go up gain. Wish is mean!" She hugged me, and I told her to just forget about it, that it was time to see the pumpkin patch, and this seemed to pacify her. Nicholas kept trying to ask me questions--and I knew exactly what type of questions he wanted to ask--but I kept shushing him, for I didn't want to think about what had just happened...not just yet. I just wanted to enjoy the rest of the time we had there.

We ran to the top of the hill and walked inside the waiting area inside the main barn, and soon the four of us loaded up the truck and moved to Beverl...uh...well, you know.

Alas, the pumpkin patch had been pretty much picked over by the time we arrived; indeed, half of the remaining gourds had been stepped on, dropped, or collapsed from rot.
We were able to find three imperfect ones, though, and the kiddies were pleased, and so Foot Foot and I were, too. We drove back to the waiting barn, Foot Foot bought the kiddies--and herself--a snack or two, and I hauled all three pumpkins three miles up the hills to the Jeep.
Whilst I was truding up that hill, Foot Foot took the kiddies to the Pre-Glue Petting Zoo on the Lazy Acres grounds, where Georgia quickly became captivated with a goat. She especially liked the goat's hooves. She laughed at them, saying "Foot! Foot!" followed by giggles upon giggles. When I returned--this time I drove down the hill and parked in a (now) nearby empty area--Georgia saw me and came running. She hugge me and pointed towards the Pre-Glue Petting Zoo, shouting, "Foot Foot, Daddy, Foot Foot!" My came to us and explained to me what "Foot Foot" meant, and almost as soon as she said, Foot Foot, Georgia held her nose and said, "Daddy, Foot Foot stink!" She laughed, and so did the rest of us.
I asked my wife Foot Foot (her new nickname as of post-Lazy Acres trip) if she was ready to go, and she said yes, but first I had to take Nicholas on the mini-hay bale "Don't Take a Left" maze, where the object is to complete the maze without, uh, taking a left. Foot Foot and Georgia walked over to a (completely out of place) Renaissance Fair tent on the grounds and bought some King Richard Raspberry Jam and some Magna Carta Cranberry Jam from an older couple dressed in period attire, and Nicholas and I completed the maze--without ever taking a left--two times within sixty seconds. While waiting on Foot Foot and Georgia to pay their farthings, Nicholas and I watched another father/son team challenge the maze and complete it successfully by jumping over the bales when they encountered the first left-turn-or lose endgame.
Foot Foot and Georgia walked over, Foot Foot handed me the Medieval Jam, and we walked towards the Jeep. I just had to look back, and what I saw struck me with awe: two separate groups of people--with ears of corn adorning their clothes--conducting two separate dances, chanting, "Vos operor ignoro Latin quod nos operor," over and over. Penny asked what was that singing she heard, but I shouted for her and the children not to look back no matter what, lest they turn to salt. Nicholas replied, "Dad, that's stupid. You know we're not gymnasts."

Tomorrow: Part Three, the Finarle.