Bostworld

I’ve loved Jack Cole’s work ever since I first saw it — probably in an old DC Special or Super Spectacular from back in the seventies. Or perhaps it was in the books by Jules Feiffer or Les Daniels. I’ve been happily binging on Plastic Man, thanks to 8 volumes devoted to the stretchy supersleuth in the hardbound DC Archive Editions series. But the endless variation on the same theme — elastic though it is — tends to get monotonous after a while. Which is why it’s been great to see so much space devoted lately to Cole’s horror and crime work over at these fine comic book blogs:

Pappy’s Golden Age Comics

The Horrors Of It All

Those Fabuleous Fifties

Now that we’re in the Golden Age of Golden Age Comics Reprints, Cole’s work isn’t nearly as hard to see. But in the old days, we had to rely on poor quality reproductions in black and white reprint ‘zines, like Ron Goulart’s “Comics: The Golden Age,” which is where this story come from. I scanned it back in the early days of my introduction to the internet. I had just gotten a scanner — an HP unit the size of a small truck that cost me a thousand dollars — and I was enamored of Usenet. My “Mantoka” scans are a part of my fledgling efforts to joint that community.

My original scans look laughable nowadays, optimized as they were for the old low-baud dial-up days of the early 90s, and the low-rez monitors of the day. The latticework of compression artifacts looks like the spidery skin of a dry corpse. Happily, seeing as I apparently throw out nothing, I can still actually put my hands of the box containing the magazine this story appeared in. It’s okay — I should be able to walk upright in a couple of weeks once the muscles in my back have a chance to heal. Meanwhile, enjoy these fresh new scans of this great example of Jack Cole’s formative work, originally published in “Funny Pages” #34 (Jan. 1940).

Even the most amateur photographer cannot resist Historic Route 66.

Did I say “even?” I’m sorry, I meant “especially.” There’s a whole cottage industry around vending pix of America’s Highway. It’s practically a cliche, like going to Niagra Falls for your honeymoon, or going to New York City to see “Cats.” If you visit any of the cool rotting towns along Historic Route 66, you bring your camera, then you can tell the world you’re a Great Artist. If you don’t know anyone with a large format photo printer, you can post your pix to Panoramio and stash ‘em up on Google Earth.

Despite it’s remoteness, HR66 can get kind of touristy in spots. Oatman is a great example. It’s definitely got that “get your picture take with a real cowboy” kind of vibe to it, with daily wild west shows in the streets and the old main drag restored to a tarted-up faux “authenticity” for the folks visiting from just a stone’s throw across the river over in Laughlin. But once you pass beyond Kingman, things take a distinctly more desolate turn. Get off the main drag of Interstate Route 40 and head north into the reservation land below the southwestern rim of the Grand Canyon (home of the controversial “skywalk” attraction). Except for the lovingly curated homages to Burma Shave, you’ll find nothing but long stretches of wide open space in between a few rustic wood and stone structures collapsing in isolation.

Of course, you’d expect Winslow to make a grab for tourist dollars. Only fifty miles east of Flagstaff and right on the doorstep of earth’s first verified impact crater, Winslow also holds the dubious distinction of being immortalized in classic rock. Home to the Standin’ On The Corner Park (and host of the annual Standin’ On The Corner Festival), Winslow boasts of “a life size bronze statue and a two story mural depicting the story behind the famous song.” And that’s not all — while in town, be sure to visit the Winslow Remembrance Garden (”Who can forget 9/11?”), which contains “actual wreckage from the World Trade Center.”

It’s odd that Winslow felt it necessary to import ruined buildings. They have so many picturesque homegrown examples. But these will no doubt fall by the wayside as outside investors price the local entrepreneurs right off the scene. But never fear: our Bostworld cameras were on the scene to take you around the corner and down the street of Winslow, Arizona (and vicinity), where buildings still fall apart they way they used to back in the old days: one crack, peel and splinter at a time.

So, what did you do with YOUR “stimulus” check?

I gave my share over to my wife — we’ve got bills to pay. No muss, no fuss. But I’m still hoping to “help keep the terrorists from winning” by checking something off my wish list. Specifically, I’m hankering after a new zoom lens for my camera. But first, I need to take a look at the bill from my mechanic for the new shocks he’s putting on my car.

“What’d you do, take this thing off-roading?” He asked. “It’s okay — you can tell me.” Smartass. Why would I take my twelve-year-old Nissan Altima off-roading? Besides, I hardly need any extra impulsiveness to trash my suspension — the speed-bumps infesting my neighborhood take care of that.

Anyway, if I really wanted to wreck my suspension, I wouldn’t even need to take my car into the desert. We have plenty of dirt roads around that’ll do the job just fine. In fact, the roads to some of Arizona’s ghost towns are so bad I’d need to rent a jeep to visit them. In fact, a couple years back, when my wife and I tried to visit Crown King, which is up in the Bradshaw Mountains west of the I-17 freeway, the road was so washboarded-out that we finally gave up and turned around

Imagine my chagrin, then, when I discovered last week that the whole isolated top of the mountain where Crown King resides was being ravaged by one of the wildfires we suffer every summer around these parts. So it’s already too late to see the area as it was a week ago. But you can bet as soon as I can get a free day, I’ll be grabbing my wife and my new camera lens, renting a jeep, and getting up there to see what’s left. Stimulus or no stimulus.

“Sure Listic” - The Animated Egg
“Shake It!” - Frosted Shake Five
“MacArthur Park” - Hugo Montenegro
“I’m Confessin’” - Nino Tempo & April Stevens
“Summer” - Emerson/Chromolox
“Bring A Little Water” - Los Bravos
“Hermeto” - Hermeto
“The Work Song” - Bobby Darin
“It’s a New Day” - Arling & Cameron
“Reach Out For Me” - Helmut Zacharias



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Thanks to the share-isphere, the best time for your fans to catch up with you is once you’ve died. It’s not like everything you’ve ever released isn’t already available for free several times over, but once you die, everything gets consolidated and much easier to find. Last year it was James Brown; the year before, it was Buck Owens. Right now, it’s George Carlin’s turn.

Thinking about George Carlin for the past week or so has kind of pissed me off. I can still remember how delighted I was to discover him back in 1972 (which, by the way, was inversely proportional to how disgusted my step-father was to discover him). But that seems like only yesterday, and now, just like George I’m getting damn old. And I’m also just about as charmed by the current state of affairs as he was. So, as liberating as his long-haired counter-culture material was to a twelve-year-old boy 35 years ago, the enlightened bitterness of the take-no-prisoners routines from the end of his life end up resonating with me even more.

Continue reading ‘Things I Should Throw Out: Clippings From The Eighties’

One of the mainstays of the big band circuit, the Glenn Miller Orchestra actually spent a mere half a decade with its namesake at the helm. Miller built his his legendary band, with its unique clarinet-centric signature sound in 1938. But by 1942, he was making music for the United States Armed Forces, struggling to add jazz touches to traditional military marching band music. Two years later, while still in the service, Glenn disappeared somewhere over the English Channel. Two years after that, Glenn’s estate drafted sax player/vocalist Tex Beneke to lead the first Miller “ghost” orchestra.

Continue reading ‘Glenn Miller Orchestra - “Do You Wanna Dance?”’

Summer is never the easiest time of year for my brother Damon. Living as he does out in the middle of the desert with nothing but generator power and water from a shared well, it can be a challenge to keep himself cool. But even during the coolest time of the year, it’s tough trying to get him to offer me any back story on the televison program he produced during the 90s for Access Tucson’s public access cable station. Though I’ve asked him to contribute to my series of excerpts from his show, so far the only response I’ve gotten from him is a terse “just keep ‘em coming.”

Continue reading ‘The Damon Show, Part Three’

Happy fucking fortieth anniversary, America.

I can still remember clearly the 6th of June, 1968. That’s the day I learned that “Bob” was short for “Robert.” To my mind, there were two Kennedy brothers running for president that year. I knew the Kennedys were a big family, and they all seemed to be in politics. So, to my seven-year-old mind, it followed. It was incredible to me, then, that not one but both of them managed to get shot in the aftermath of the June 5th California primary. And the next morning, when it was announced that Robert F. Kennedy had died in the early hours of June 6th, I remarked, “Boy. I wonder how Bobby’s doing.”

Continue reading ‘Vacation Special: Robert and Bobby Kennedy’