A Dip Into This Old Box Of Comics

A while back, I helped somebody from church move out of their house. As we were finishing up, I noticed a box of old comics and asked what was going on with them. The guy told me they were the ones his son didn't want and if I'd like them. Now, I'm sure you know this, but asking me if I want free comics is like asking Dom Delouise if he'd like seconds. Yes. Please. Of course I do. Even if they're terrible. So I now I own what I will now refer to as This Old Box Of Comics. It looks exactly like this:



I'll dip in every now and then and give you a scan or two from this treasure trove of awesome. Like this for example:

Oh, look, it's Gotham City's commissioner Gordon on the phone with Batman! What could the problem be? Has Killer Croc escaped from Arkham and eaten a bunch of orphans? Perhaps the Joker has poisoned the water supply with a hallucinogenic agent that makes anyone who drinks it think they're the Kaiser? Or maybe Two Face has murdered a bunch of librarians in protest of the Dewey Decimal System?



Or, uh, that. Now if I were Batman, I'd hang up the phone immediately and go back to, you know, fighting evil while dressed as a large, flying rodent, but, unfortunately, I'm not Batman. Batman, well, Batman pretty much freaks out:



I don't know if I blame the fella though. I mean, this is a guy who tangles with some of the most dangerous lunatics in the DC Universe. As a hobby. I'd imagine the promise of a golden sponge cake with creamy filling inside awaiting his safe return to the Batcave is all that keeps him from snapping. And I just can't imagine what it would look like if Batman finally snapped. How horrible would that be?

Oh, and then there's this, from another advertisement in the same issue:



I can't tell, is Batman threatening me or hitting on me? You decide!

*******

Panels taken from Action Comics # 458, published April 1976.

Drumroll, Please...

Ladies & gentlemen. Boys & girls of all ages. I present to you the winner of the Alphabet Town mixtape:

None other than Mister John Kendall of Portland, Oregon. And I promise he didn't win just because he threatened my pet, appealed to my sense of mercy or because he wants to have babies with me. Well, maybe because of the last one. He is a very handsome man, right, my buddy Bat?

A big "thanks" to everyone who played along. I'll have another one to give away sometime soon. I am addicted to Mixtapery. I gots it bad!

No One Knows I'm Gone

Okay, so I took my buddy, Batzorig Chimeddorj, to the Idaho Falls airport so he could pick up a rental car and head off to Denver to look for work. Bat's a swell guy and a great designer. Check out his website. See? Dude's got wicked Art Fu.

For the last few years, I have almost always had a class with Bat and he has consistently inspired me to try harder, to do better and to be better. He's always been a good friend and a good sounding board, helping turn my so-so ideas into something much better.

And now he's gone.

I'm sure I echo a lot of people's sentiments when I say that this signals the end of some sort of era, as Bat's become a sort of legend; a Mongolian art machine with a big smile and a warm heart.

True story: we were coming back from a portfolio review in Salt Lake. I was sitting next to Bat and we were discussing how we respond to art (he's more intellectually-based, I'm more of a gut-reaction, visceral type of guy) or something like that, and we're sitting behind Kelly Burgener, the Dean of the Art College and Scott Franson, aka, my favorite teacher ever. So it's March and Bro. Burgener's driving. It's getting late. For some reason, Burgener's got the fan running and the air's a bit cool.

It's also hitting me right in my crotch.

I try shutting the vent, but that only creates an annoying whine, so I decide to just take it. So I lean over and sort of whisper to Bat, "Man, this air's blowing right on my crotch." To which Bat responds - and we're sitting directly behind Burgener an Franson, mind you - rather loudly with the query "What is 'crotch?'" Both Franson and Burgener are cracking up at this point as I try to delicately explain to Bat what the word means without upsetting the young girls in the back seat. "Is it your neck?" Bat asks.

"No. Uh, lower."

"Your belly?"

"No. Lower.

[pause]

"Oh."

And that, my dear readers, is the story of how I taught my Mongolian friend the true maening of the word "crotch." Awkward, but funny.

So, travel well, Bat. You'll be missed. I know you'll do well. Keep in touch and best of luck, gangster. Peace.