SEASON OF DREAD

It starts earlier every year. The cutesy, pervasive music. Red, white and green decorations festooning everything in sight. Endless seasonally-themed television adverts. Yes, I'm talking about the Christmas season and today marks the first time this year that I have seen Christmas-related TV ads, thirteen days before Halloween, for fuck's sake! Now begins the slow torture of the holidays being shoved down my throat for the next two-and-a-half months since the bombardment really doesn't end until after New Year's Day. I'll bear it, but I sure as shit will not be grinning.

WEEKEND UPDATE

FRIDAY- I couldn't sleep again thanks to those fucking mice, so I shifted my planned trip to Marvel from the afternoon to the morning, with the goal of being back in Brooklyn by 11:30 AM. I went to the House of Re-Hashed Ideas and met with Jared to do a DVD exchange and receive a free copy of the STAR WARS trilogy DVD set. Jared's buddy Rob ordered the set and it arrived with a damaged slipcover, so he emailed the company and requested a new box; instead of merely a new box they sent him a whole new set, which he passed on to Jared, who passed it on to me. SCORE! More on the actual DVD set in a posting or two...

I left Marvel and met Eddie at the movie theater for the 12:15 matinee of TEAM AMERICA: WORLD POLICE, the latest from the guys behind SOUTH PARK. It's a puppet movie that owes a major debt to Gerry Anderson's ouvre (THUNDERBIRDS, STINGRAY, CAPTAIN SCARLET, et cetera) but is more accurately described as a simultaneous satire of those shitty Jerry Bruckheimer movies and testosterone-ridden American jingoism, and I found it to be very funny. Sadly, the exceptional puppetry made me irate at the blown opportunity that was the live-action THUNDERBIRDS feature film, a film that I refuse to see for the same reasons that won't let me see an American Godzilla movie.

Other than that, the rest of the day was spent walking a friend's dog and checking out some of the STAR WARS DVD stuff.

SATURDAY- Spent the day as tour guide to one of my favorite people on the planet, namely my friend Julie, and her cool six-year-old son Jordan. It was really great to be able to spend time with her and get to know her kid, but the thing that really struck me was how it seemed that the passage of time hadn't really changed her that much. Good to see. And during our visit to Jim Hanley's Universe — my vote for Manhattan's most personable comic shop — I picked up the DVD set of the complete GREG THE BUNNY, my vote for the funniest TV comedy since GET A LIFE. Spent most of the night checking out the GREG discs and continuing to work my way through THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK with the audio commentary.

SUNDAY- It was unseasonably cold this morning,and when I awoke and threw off my comforters I nearly froze my balls off; it was around forty-nine degrees outside and I had left my window open overnight. The day was spent in a state of cold-induced near-torpor and I continued to work my way through GREG THE BUNNY and its highly entertaining audio commentary. By mid-afternoon I gave in to the seasonal shift and passed out cold for a couple of hours, and when I awoke I cleaned my kitchenette. I heard from the mighty Wendy for the first time in about a week and watched the Yankees VS Red Socks playoff game on TV, which is still on as I write this at 12:42 AM, Monday morning. Later today I will send in my story pitches for the DEXTER'S LABORATORY comic book. That's it for now I guess.

God, I need some pussy. Any volunteers? I promise a serious oil and baby powder massage, with a kickass breakfast the next day. Think about it!

THIS IS A MOVIE LISTING?

Here in the Rotten Apple there is a phone service called 777-FILM, a handy provider of movie listings and showtimes that covers the five boroughs and surrounding areas. I often call it for film times since it is more accurate than most such services, but it has the annoying feature of subjecting the caller to long and irritatingly-voiced trailers for films or ads for various services like over-the-phone ticket buying and signup info for various movie-related perks before they can hear the information that they called for in the first place.

I called early this morning to find out the matinee times for TEAM AMERICA: WORLD POLICE at my local theater of choice and rolled my eyes as the unwelcome-yet-familiar voice of "Mister Moviephone" droned on about a new feature where the caller can hear reviews for movies. That's okay, but the ad went as follows:

"Hey, moviegoers! Try out or new instant review feature! Before you see the movies, find out if they glow of if they blow!"

I ask you, is that any way to do an ad on a movie listing line? I mean, if you're gonna go for "edgy" at least be funny. That line was something a fifth-grader would have come up with. Pitiful...

FULLY LOADED GUMBO EL BUNCHO

Gumbo, cherished mainstay of Louisiana cuisine and one of the tastiest fucking dishes on the planet; as diverse as the people in the region that spawned it, there are literally dozens — if not hundreds — of ways to prepare a rich pot of gumbo and I have attempted at least seven different varieties only to arrive at my culinary gene-splicing of my favorite variations (chief of which is my mother’s brown roux specialty). Making a good batch of this sacred brew is an art form requiring patience, a knack for “measuring by intuition,” and attention to both detail and the slowly simmering elixir; if you feel that you do not possess these traits, do not attempt this recipe and pass it on to someone who would feel more comfortable with it. If you’re gonna make gumbo, you’ve gotta do it right since gumbo cooking ain’t for the weak. Not scared off? Then let’s get badassed on the bayou!

INGREDIENTS:

ROUX
SALT AND PEPPER (to taste)
ONIONS
CELERY
CHICKEN BROTH
ANDOUILLE SAUSAGE
CHICKEN
DUNGENESS CRABS (or ALASKAN KING CRAB LEGS)
CLAM JUICE
SHRIMP
GUMBO FILE

The foundation of any good batch of the ‘Bo is a heartfelt roux. Roux is a mixture of flour and oil that is continually stirred over a medium hot flame until the mixture turns a chestnut brown; some prefer a lighter color for their roux but I find that the darker brown provides a headier flavor, but you can do it however you like. Blend the flour and oil slowly with a spatula, and I suggest adding salt and pepper (to taste) to the mix at this point. The roux is finished when it is somewhat pasty in thickness and has reached the shade of brown that floats your boat, but time-wise I usually stay at the stove and stir slowly for about a half-hour/forty-five minutes; this part of the procedure is a great time for functional meditation as you concentrate on the incredibly relaxing Zen of stirring. Also, depending on how much you need for your batch of gumbo, I suggest making a surplus of roux to save on the side. More on this shortly.

Next, chop up as much onion and celery as you may need and sauté in butter or oil until the veggies are somewhat soft. As mentioned previously regarding the roux, you may also want to prepare a surplus of the vegetables so that they can be combined with the surplus roux and frozen for when you may need it again; since making roux is a time-consuming activity you will pat yourself on the back for this time-saving bit of foresightedness when it is needed.

Next, pour the veggies and roux into an eight-quart stock pot and mix thoroughly. Now pour in two quarts (or as much as you feel you may need; remember that much of my method is intuitive) of chicken broth and four Andouille sausages that have been cut into small, coin-shaped sections. NOTE: I recommend adding as much Andouille as possible since it adds a distinct flavor and spiciness to the mix, but keep in mind that the shit ain’t cheap; at my local supermarket they go for around six bucks per pound and that translates into two nine-inch sausages for about five bucks since a two sausage pack never quite equals a full pound. My average batch of gumbo requires at least four Andouille sausages, and in a pinch smoked sausage, Italian sausage and damn near any other sausage will do, but I’m snob for authenticity.

Bring this lovely mixture to a low boil and add the Dungeness crabs (cleaned of course, and frozen is perfectly fine — for my standard batch I go with three pounds, which comes to around twenty bucks) or Alaskan King Crab Legs, and then the chicken. I recommend wings, legs and thighs over breasts since breasts tend to fall apart into stringy tendrils during a long, slow simmer; it’s still edible, but it’s just nicer to have a piece of solid chicken to sink your teeth into while enjoying the meal. Anyway, pour in one quarter of a bottle of clam juice and we’re off to the races. Once that comes to a boil drop it down to a low simmer, stirring periodically for three hours, taking care not to break up the chicken too much. NOTE: sometimes the roux portion of the mixture may stick to the bottom of the pot so pay attention and don’t let it settle to the bottom for too long.

At the end of the three-hour simmer add at least a pound of fresh, cleaned shrimp to the pot, along with a few shakes of gumbo file; file is ground sassafras which is used to thicken soups and stews, so apply as much as you need for the desired thickness. Let this boil for another five minutes and remove from heat. That’s it. You have now made a pot of gumbo.

I recommend making this the day before you intend to serve it since, much like almost any dish, the gumbo finds its flavor overnight. Just make sure that it has fully cooled before putting it in the fridge. And for those who want more of a kick to the flavor, feel free to add whatever kind of hot sauce you like later, though thanks to the Andouille you probably won’t need to.

MOUSE WARS: EARLY MORNING ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE

It's 4:56 AM and I can't sleep.

Of the many downsides of living in my tenement building, the one that irks me most is the mice. Since moving in here over seven years ago I have waged an ongoing war with the mice that periodically infest the building and shit all over the Goddamned place, and I know for a fact that I am not the only resident to regularly deal with those unwelcome visitors and their little "presents." The building is located right next to a community garden — more honestly described as a barely converted vacant lot — and there has to be some entry from there into my building. I often see rats and mice cavorting within the garden and am eternally thankful that I merely have mice; in the way that most people hate cockroaches I despise rodent vermin with a primal loathing and having them in my apartment nearly drives me mad. Even more maddening is the fact that I have never been able to figure out exactly where the hole that they get in here through is, otherwise I would have stuffed it with soaped steel wool and sealed it long ago.

One of the services provided as part of the rent is an exterminator who pops by on the third Sunday of each month and sprays for roaches, and upon request he will leave out a toxic block for the mice to nibble on and hopefully die from. Let me tell you with absolute certainty that the poison the guy uses has no effect on the wee invaders, and my preferred method of retaliation is glue traps, particularly those bearing the Tomcat brand. Tomcat traps are a bit pricier than others but they work like a charm thanks to a glue with a scent that is apparently quite enticing to
mice, and when I put down traps during the times when I know for a fact that they are about at night I am guaranteed to find at least one mired in the sticky goo, staring at me with those expressionless black little eyes. I then drop the trap and adhesed vermin into a plastic bag and drop the whole kit and kaboodle into the waiting trash cans outside.

There are two things that suck about this process:
1. When trapped, the mice thrash about, making a racket from moving the plastic trap around, and they also squeak. A lot. Very loudly. One cannot sleep through this shrill cacophany and the only way to restore peace and quiet is to get out of bed and dispose of the captive. Sadly, once I am awake I have a difficult time nodding off again.
2. Sometimes a mouse will wander into one of the traps while I am away for a few days and when I return I find that my apartment stinks hellaciously thanks to the mouse's decomposing corpse. It's truly amazing how something so small can generate such a powerful stench in almost no time at all; I once returned after two days to find my flat reeking like a week-long garbage strike and only figured out the cause after tearing the place apart and locating the rotting mouse behind my stove.

This morning I was awakened by the previously described thrashing and squeaking and looked into the area where I had laid down traps only a few hours earlier; not only was there a mouse loudly bemoaning its inability to free itself from the tenacious glue, but there was another one darting about looking for a way out before I could position another trap in front of its narrow escape crevace. I disposed of the helpless captive, put down another trap to fortify the mini-tar pit behind my kitchenette's counter, and attempted to sleep again. That plan was swiftly kiboshed when I heard the other mouse return; I can hear him now, scurrying about and it is only a matter of time until he wanders into his doom. Come and get it, you furry little motherfucker...

CRACKHEAD LOVE AT THE KEY FOOD

I was on the long-as-always line for the express checkout at the local Key Food supermarket today when the attention of myself and every other on-line patron was caught by a a woman causing a fuss on a checkout line a few rows down from where I was. The woman was clearly zonked on something and loudly berated her mindlessly-grinning male companion while she pulled item after item onto the checkout counter's conveyor belt. Loud, seemingly insane... Yep, these were crackheads, and things were about to get interesting.

"Muthafukka, you tellin' me to save muthafukkin' money... YOU AIN'T MY MAN, MUTHAFUKKA! YOU AIN'T MY MAN!" The hapless male crackhead huh-huh'ed to himself in a vain attempt at shrugging off his public humiliation and wittily countered with "You be runnin' yo' mouf an' shit...ain't impressin' no muthafukkin' body..." This Pinteresque exchange went on for a good five minutes, utterly holding up the line that they were on and trying the patience of the justly-nervous checkout girl until the two morons just abruptly walked out of the store, leaving behind a mountain of groceries that were easily worth around $200.

The relieved checkout girl exclaimed "That shit was ridiculous!" and I commented with a black woman in front of me and a West Indian man behind me that it was a good thing that only two white people witnessed the embarrassing display, since it would have been yet another citable example of us highly-rhythmic individuals as boorish, drug-addicted vermin who bring down property values. Ah, the free entertainment that is the Five Boroughs.

TO EVERYTHING TURN, TURN, TURN…

A good friend of mine whom I’ve known for over twenty-five years recently noted that due to many diverse factors our thirties are the new twenties, and the more I think upon that statement I realize that she’s absolutely right.

I left home to find fame and fortune in early 1990 and spent much of the Nineties enjoying the sort of extended post-collegiate party-boy-with-a-job existence that usually comes to a halt at around the age of twenty-five, yet I and many of my friends held on with a vengeance to the reckless thrills and borderline-delinquency of the days when we first congregated. Turning thirty in June of 1995 did little to alter my routine and I soldiered on in a relatively low-paying job in the field that I wanted to be a part of since I was a kid; the comics biz is notorious for rock bottom pay unless you happen to be in the right place at the right time, but those of us who stuck with it despite the lack of fair financial reward did it for love of comics as a whole, and that’s how the biz can hook you for life. But looking back on it now, sticking with the production department end of things for as long as I did offered little advancement in my chosen field and offered mostly a steady paycheck, medical benefits (which are admittedly nothing to sneeze at) and a comfortable space in which to work. Basically I was still thinking like a teenager who was stuck in a rut and afraid to move on and get a real job.

To their credit, many of my like-minded friends found the balls to move on and at least attempt something different while I accepted my place in the Marvel Bullpen as a loyal retainer to a steadily-changing comics-empire daimyo. My move to another company and eventual move up into the ranks of editorial provided fleeting creative satisfaction, some new friends and a raise in pay, and also made me realize that, for the most part, my days of carefree playtime were over. Looking around me and observing not only my own life, the lives of my friends and the paths that we had all taken, I came to the stunning conclusion that we were now grownups. It had taken most of us until our mid-thirties, but we were fucking GROWNUPS!

Now there were partners, marriages, spouses, children, sobriety, the physical evidence of fast-waning youth, out-of-state moves, out-of-the-country moves, major surgeries, parental deaths, marital infidelities, non-life-threatening VD from adultery, divorces, layoffs and long-term bouts of unemployment, mortgages… the stuff that we witnessed our parents going through was now a part of our daily existence and waking up to that reality was a serious motherfucker.

As I face the acceptance of my actual status as a card-carrying grownup I realize that I never could have predicted the twists of fate that have brought me and my extended family to where we are now. Our group was once so close-knit that we could easily have been confused with some drunken, promiscuous cult with nearly all of its core members located within the five boroughs, but mostly within walking-distance of each other in Brooklyn. Little was done without all of the family involved and the oft-repeated tales of our glory days in college have become so ingrained into our insular culture that they are known by rote even to those who joined the collective hive-mind when our days in the ivy-covered walls of higher learning were long past. No one could have imagined this familiar community someday scattering to the four winds, but that is exactly what has happened over the past six years or so. Fortunately it doesn’t bother me to lose my friends to the daily realities of grownup concerns since many of them married well, I like most of their spouses, and all of those who have children have stepped up to plate and proven to be quite good parents, some of whom are downright spectacular at it. I’m just pleased to see that the majority of them are happy.

Currently only four members of the core group remain within the Manhattan/Brooklyn area, and since one of us is recently married he and his spouse have begun house hunting in upstate New York. Many of our number have ended up in the charming hamlet of New Paltz, New York, a two-hour bus ride from Manhattan, with abundant quiet and real estate prices of a far more affordable nature than anything to be found in the Big Apple. For the money that one of the New Paltz-dwelling ex-pats shelled out for a stunning house with lush property, one could barely afford to own a one-bedroom apartment in my neighborhood, so I don’t blame those who fled North one bit. In fact, I plan on ending up there myself whenever my fortunes reverse and I can afford to pack up and leave. My other goals are finding steady employment and hooking up with a long-term girlfriend; poverty and loneliness are a bad combo, and despite the availability of loneliness-relieving sex I am holding out for something hopefully deeper than that. My summer fling was quite fun, though...

While I still go out on the weekends, the nights of Viking-style partying and sleeping with equally horny women who I cared for as little more than a means to an orgasmic end are over; I look back on my romantic adventures and with the notable exceptions of six women who immediately spring to mind I would happily trade all of my sexual encounters for time spent catching up on my reading or sitting through classic movies that I haven’t seen. We all change and grow with age and right now my priority requirements from any woman I get involved with are a sense of humor, a love of food since I live to cook, the ability to tolerate my taste in movies and music, and most important of all, she must not be unstable. I am famous for hooking up with unstable women who range from painfully needy and insecure to outright loonies who are dangerous to themselves and others, and that is an ongoing pattern that must change.

Sooner or later I’ll enjoy the perks of grownupness that my more together friends have found, and then I’ll finally be able to close the door on my misspent-yet-fun youth and get on with my destiny of becoming the local bizarre-yet-cool old codger. Hopefully with a fun, sweet mate and an income that will allow us to support a gaggle of little Bunchelings; hopefully all little monster-lovin’ metalhead girls who I can dress like little punker princesses and teach the lyrics to “I Wanna Piss On You” and other like classics. Ah, bliss.

THESE KIDS TODAY

My Brooklyn neighborhood is a study in cultural and socio-economic diversity, with poverty and wealth literally staring each other in the face on a daily basis. The building next to mine is a welfare fortress, a twenty-four-hour party since apparently none of the residents work, and the kids and teens who live there have a minimal amount of parental supervision or involvement in their lives. The one heartwarming exception to this is the recently-out-of-prison dad who graphically lectured his son on the dangers of getting ass-fucked in the lockdown shower by horny gang members; this Hallmark moment was answered by his nine-year-old son who said "When I go to jail ain't nobody fuckin' me up the ass!" The father smiled proudly at his little man and the two of them celebrated their tender father/son bonding with deep drags on a fat joint. I marvelled at this and sorrowfully noted that the father in no way offered advice on staying out of jail and apparently accepted the inevitability of his offspring following in his footsteps.

Most of the boys next door hang out noisily on the stoop and hawk pitiful ditch-weed that I wouldn't have smoked even during the worst of "droughts" in my long-ago college stoner days, and the girls are all — and I do mean all — mothers of infants at ages below sixteen, each bearing the stretch marks and post-baby flab of women at least a decade or more older than they are; that lamentable spectacle is punctuated by the fact that they wear outfits that reveal way too much skin — and consequently doughy fat — and they believe that they look sexy. Sorry, girls, but you look like Hispanic variants of ignorant trailer trash like my relatives in rural Alabama.

This kind of slack behaviour is also quite evident among the progeny of the moneyed white residents up the street, kids who are every bit as uncouth, hip-hop affecting, foul-mouthed and knocked-up as their more "ghetto" counterparts. The difference is that the white kids are under the supervision of their parents more often than not, but what kind of supervision are they getting?

A few weeks ago I was walking down the street and noticed a local white mother and her fourteen-year-old daughter laughing amongst themselves and enjoying the sunny day. I smiled at the obvious camaraderie between the two and was charmed by their sweet demeanor... until I saw the t-shirt that the daughter wore. The shirt was a good three sizes too small and was obviously meant to showcase her gravity-defying, erect-nippled, fresh-out-of-the-box breasts, but that wasn't the problem. To my horror, the girl's shirt was emblazoned with the slogan "I have the pussy, so I make the rules."

Not a Photoshop gag. Buy one for your tweener daughter today!

Now, I am about as far from being a prude as a person can get, but there is no way in Hell that I would allow my jailbait daughter out of the house — or in the house for that matter — in that shirt. Sure, the sentiment is amusing, and in the case of most women I know absolutely true, but the girl wearing it was just a kid! What does that say about her mother? Does she think it's an appropriate statement to be made by an adolescent? I'd love to hear other opinions on this one...

COSTUME DRAMA: HALLOWEEN AS A SUPER-HERO

Bonfires burning bright
Pumpkin faces in the night
I remember Halloween

Dead cats hanging from poles
Little dead are out in droves
I remember Halloween

Brown leafed vertigo
Where skeletal life is known
I remember Halloween

This day anything goes
Burning bodies hanging from poles
I remember Halloween

Candy apples and razor blades
Little dead are soon in graves
I remember Halloween

This day anything goes
Burning bodies hanging from poles
I remember Halloween

-“Halloween” by the Misfits, 1981

So, do ya think this guy remembers Halloween?

Ah, Halloween. The finest day in the month of Rocktober, the day wherein the imagination is brought to vivid life, crazily bedecked and given license to wander your neighborhood and scrounge for heavily-sugared comestibles when not launching eggs at your house or setting light to paper sacks filled with dog turds on your once innocent porch in fervent hope that you will stomp out the blaze while wearing your brand new Hush Puppies. Legions of costumed urchins and their sometimes equally twisted elders ringing your doorbell in a yearly ritual of extortion that will hopefully keep your trees free of soon-to-be-dew-soggy rolls of Charmin and any sundry, festering detritus that they may have schlepped with them just in case you are stingy with the candy. The high-pitched, out-of-tune cacophony of that immortal chant:

Trick or treat!
Smell my feet!
Give me something good to eat!

With the exuberance that only children have and all pretense of good manners and tunefulness thrown merrily to the brisk fall winds, is there any sweeter music known?

If you are a lover of both horror and unfettered imagination there is no more sacred day in the entire calendar; when enjoyed properly Halloween can be more fun than Christmas, Thanksgiving dinner, your birthday and your most fondly remembered sexual encounter all rolled into one, and brothers and sisters, that ain't nothin' to sneeze at!

Sure, many of us don crazy getups and lose ourselves in our chosen character on that most bitchin' night of nights, but we were all indoctrinated into the Halloween spirit by parents and loved ones who were all about fostering a love of fantasy and make believe in which even little ones who were often overlooked or relegated to the dreaded “kid's table” at grownup social gatherings could participate. For the young and young at heart, Halloween is an “everybody's welcome” mass equalizer that not only allows the individual to be someone or something other than himself or herself for a short, blessed time, but also guarantees that you will see some outrageous costumes and activities.

Most of us got into the Pumpkin Time groove at an early age, forced to represent in those horrible POS Ben Cooper one-piece costumes that came equipped with vision-obstructing plastic masks which had sharp edges that scratched us around the eyes and the character's name needlessly emblazoned across a good portion of the outfit's front (well maybe not so needless since it saved adults from asking “And what are you then?”), and if enduring that exquisite commercially packaged child abuse and looking like total pint-sized assembly line douchebags didn't kill our Halloween spirit then nothing, and I do mean NUH-THING, could.

My earliest memory of soldiering in the name candy and costume (candy that I invariably gave to my mother since I have never had much of sweet tooth) is from 1969, when I was handed one of those large-to-a-preschooler boxes which contained a costume of Hanna-Barbera's super-hero, Birdman. For those not in the know, Birdman was pretty much a bland Hawkman knockoff that was such a lightweight you could theoretically rob him of his solar-derived powers by chucking him into a closet and handing him a most righteous ass-kicking; since he was a pretty pathetic washout in the super-hero department, Birdman is currently seen to much better effect on the Cartoon Network's Harvey Birdman, Lawyer as a defense attorney for errant cartoon superstars of yore. Yet none of his mediocre adventures mattered a whit to my four-year-old sensibilities since that night I would put on a costume that amounted to little more than glorified cellophane and be a super-hero. I knew I couldn't fly over the neighborhood on great wings, shoot rays from my clenched little fists or receive top secret communiqués on a wall-mounted TV screen from a mustachioed John Tesh look-alike with an eye patch, but for a marvelous, brief stretch of an hour our two I could sure as hell feel like anything could happen and I would be full of enough super-heroic piss and vinegar to take on all comers.

The following year I got to be Batman, my second favorite hero after the Sub-Mariner (who I knew from the fondly-remembered yet horribly-animated “Marvel Super-Heroes” show that ran in syndication). I pushed for the green light on going out as Namor, but that idea got shot down due to the fact that my comics-friendly parents (who grew up on the classics from the Golden Age) were not going to even attempt concocting plausible pointed ears and ankle wings, and the simple fact that it isn't a good idea to be running around at night an naught but a pair of green swim trunks, so rather than becoming prime pedophile bait I instead opted for the Caped Crusader.

The Adam West Batman series had ended a year or so before my debut in Bob Kane-inspired Ben Cooper finery, but I was rabid for it thanks to the miracle of daily afternoon reruns and I was just itchin' to burst forth from the old homestead and hit the Gotham City that would spring to life from my fevered imagination. I nearly burst from excitement as I checked myself out in the mirror and thrilled to Neal Hefti's unforgettable theme music as it resonated in my head; I may have been five but I looked cool enough to kick King Tut square in his skirt and hopefully get a kiss from that strange Catwoman who made me feel funny, but funny in a good way that I hadn't figured out yet.

My reverie was interrupted when my dad came in and asked if he could make one last adjustment to the cheap plastic mask that came with the costume. I handed it to him and wondered what else needed to be done; here was a dead-on likeness of the hero I saw every day, and I was perfectly happy with it as it was. I didn't see how anything could possibly be done to make me look any more like Batman, well at least as much as a five-year-old with an Afro can look like Adam West by any stretch of the imagination.

My dad left the room for a few moments and I heard the unmistakable sound of something being sprayed from an aerosol can. The telltale smell of paint soon wafted into the room when my dad returned, and he beamed as he handed me the mask. I was horrified to see that my father, in a well-intentioned act of black pride, had spray-painted the flesh-tone portion of Batman's face a light brown to match my own shade.

I was outraged to the core of my being! Sure, I knew I was black, but I also knew that Batman wasn't black, and the addition of canned melanin offended my sense of authenticity, to say nothing of the fact that I just knew If I went out with that altered mask I'd hear heckles such as “It's the Colored Crusader!” or (think of the theme tune) “Nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah, nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah - Black Man!” After much back and forth arguing I finally saw my father's point of view and agreed that blackness would not in any way hamper me representing the spirit of Batman. My mother now recalls the whole incident as perhaps the stupidest argument she ever witnessed, and nowadays I'm inclined to agree.

Fast forward to the fall of 1974, and my total immersion into 1940's Captain Marvel reprints that DC Comics was kind enough to dole out in regular 100-page doses. I first met the Captain in Jules Feiffer's indispensable The Great Comic Book Heroes (Bonanza Books, 1965 - now available from Fantagraphics), and when DC started reprinting his adventures in earnest I was at the perfect age to get hooked on them. While my love for the Captain and his equally fun cohorts grew, CBS television debuted a live action Saturday morning Captain Marvel show called “Shazam!” that many remember with great fondness, but not me. I hated it from day one and gave up on it quickly since it looked like it was made for less money than I earned on a good day from my paper route, had scripts that would have shamed my developmentally-challenged cousin Jimmy, featured an Afroed and apparently Hispanic Billy Batson wandering around the country in a Winnebago with some old fart in a bad leisure suit, had nauseating morals at the end of each low-rent installment, and worst of all, a Captain Marvel who looked like some disco jerkoff with a bad perm and flying effects to match. In short, when Halloween rolled around I felt compelled to stand up for the besmirched honor of the Captain and his family (hell, even for Hoppy the friggin' Marvel Bunny!) by traipsing around the suburban wilderness in his signature gear, complete with the fetching cape and canary-yellow buccaneer boots. The problem was that there was no such costume commercially available outside of establishments such as “Bruce's Flamboyance and Codpiece Emporium,” and no Ben Cooper costume ever came with matching footwear, a consideration that sinks the whole Captain Marvel ensemble.

The problem of unavailability was solved when I realized that my mom was a talented seamstress who didn't take her often-spectacular creations seriously at all; the lady actually put together a life-sized stuffed panda bear that she made from scratch which also doubled as an extremely comfortable beanbag chair. Realizing the likelihood that she could get away with crafting a homemade Captain Marvel outfit, I approached her with the idea and when she said yes I handed her a stack of comics for reference. Working without any sort of pattern, she created a very faithful costume that included not only a cape that was accurate down to the last detail, but also a pair of hand-made vinyl buccaneer boots. The outfit completely kicked ass, made all of the assembly line Ben Cooper costumes of that year look like the pitiful Hershey squirts that they indeed were, and was infused with a super-hero-friendly mother's love. No matter that I looked more like Fat Marvel than the Big Red Cheese himself, I felt great on that Halloween night and consider that evening to be the highlight of my childhood trick-or-treating experiences.

Then came the sad year when I realized I was too old to campaign with the rest of the costumed kids, but I was determined not to go out without a fight. My last stand would be a legend among Connecticut trick-or-treaters if I had my way about it and unfortunately it did, but for all the wrong reasons. Instead of opting for another tried and true super-hero getup I decided to go for something more contemporary and cutting edge, so what did I do? I dressed up as that stalwart goon from the scourge of the late-1970's TV airwaves, “The Gong Show”… Yes, to my eternal shame, I ended my trick-or-treating career by ringing doorbells dressed as the Unknown Comic, bag-over-the-head and all. I was thirteen, so I should have known better.

I haven't decided what I'm going out as this year but I've got a pretty good idea... And it'll be a super-hero!

KING CONAN AT THE REPUBLICAN NATIONAL CONVENTION

Scene from CONAN THE BARBARIAN (1981)

CHIEF HYRKANIAN WARLORD (to a lesser warlord): What is best in life?

LESSER WARLORD(proudly): A swift horse, the falcon at your breast, and the wind in your hair.

CHIEF HYRKANIAN WARLORD: Wrong! Conan! What is best in life?

CONAN THE BARBARIAN: To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you and to hear the lamentation of their women!

Last night, much to my horror, I witnessed California governor Arnold Schwarzenegger - aka Conan - address the throng at the Republican national Convention with perhaps the most shamelessly jingoistic and blatantly contrived “speech” that I have ever witnessed. Putting aside my own political leanings and looking at it for what it was, Ah-Nuld's oration came off exactly like the badly written Hollywood big-budget schmaltz that one would expect.

As we all know, Ah-Nuld came to this country as an immigrant who didn't speak the dominant language and ascended from being a greasy steroid-abusing homoerotic icon to an unlikely Hollywood action movie cash cow and inevitably a member of one of the nation's most politically powerful families. What you may not know is that Conan eventually usurped the throne of fabled Aquilonia and ruled as king until his death. I bring up this bit of fictional history because while watching the speech all I could see was King Conan addressing his adoring public, a public that feasted on his every utterance. So go to http://www.newsday.com/news/local/newyork/nyc-arnoldspeech,
0,6593098.story?coll=ny-nynews-headlines
for the actual, unaltered transcript of Ah-Nuld's address; simultaneously artificial, jingoistic, replete with movie references and bad jokes, horrifying and utterly nauseating in all respects. If you can't believe what you are reading, I have the whole thing on videotape and will happily show it to you upon request. Halfway through, what with the furor of the crowd and whatnot, I could only think of footage of Hitler at the Nuremberg rallies. Read it, and don't forget to supply the accent.