Today's story is Second Hand Love, a mid-70's masterpiece from the DC title Secret Hearts. The story trots out the shopworn premise of the secretary falling for her young, handsome boss, but it has two things going for it that raise it above its mundane plot: a Paris Hilton-style debutante and a heroine who is so completely lacking in self-esteem that she really needs to be institutionalized.
If a man has to choose between two girls, they can never have the same hair color. Will it be the sassy redhead or the cheerful blonde trying to strangle herself? Does it really matter when their skirts are that short?
Run along now, and remember I want that note to be classy, so only mention my dick like, once. Twice at the max. Oh and Carol, can you not wear those weird socks to work again? I've asked you before but you still keep coming to work in them. If I see those things again I'm going to dock your pay.
How can Kip be the greatest guy that ever lived? I could buy it if the writers had squeezed in a few panels of him rescuing a kitten from a tree or maybe just giving his spare change to the homeless, but as it stands he's just some creep who can't be bothered to compose his own love letters. He also apparently talks to his secretary's belt buckle.
Does Kip ever actually do any work? If I ran that company he would be so fired.
Mr Lawson, I--I-- I have to tell you t-that you're a total dumbass!
Office attire has really changed since the 70's. I'm not sure if even the most casual workplace today would let you come to work wearing a skirt that turns every dropped pen into an x-rated peepshow.
Whoa, take it easy there, Carol. I'm pretty sure that those scissors are company property... wait, did she just say she's been in love with this guy for five years? I bet that her skirts started out ankle-length and then, in desperation, she began to shorten her hems in the hopes that eight hours a day of looking at her ankles, then legs, and then finally her beav would get the hint through Kip's thick skull.
It's a good thing she just quit, if that trend kept up in a few months she'd coming to work wearing an oversized bandaid over her buttcrack.
So, Carol... tell me all about how much you like me. Is it because I'm so awesome? Have some more champagne and tell me how awesome you think I am, really. Don't be shy. It shouldn't bother you at all that I never noticed you were alive until now.
Obviously nobody has ever explained the concept of being on the rebound to Carol. It's not that Kip is making it obvious or anything by constantly thanking her for taking his mind off his broken engagement.
Check out the crazy eyes action in the last panel while Carol chants what appears to be some kind of spell. You know that just out of the panel she has a stalker shrine set up with clippings from Kip's electric razor and a Kleenex she pilfered from his trash can. Possibly with KIP LOVE ME scrawled on her walls in pigeon blood.
Looks like someone didn't chant hard enough, because here comes Paris Hilton and her big hair! When Carol snaps and bazookas everyone in the office, Kip will have no one to blame but himself.
Take a letter, Miss Gates... I'm a big square-headed clod, and while I could've blown off my ex-girlfriend over the phone, it was way more fun to mess with your head. Let's have dinner tonight, you can tell me how awesome I am. I promise to remember your name this time. Signed, Kip.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Second Hand Love! 1975
Monday, May 19, 2008
Courage and Kisses! 1960
Our story today is Courage and Kisses. It comes from a 1960 copy of My Romantic Adventures. This is my only copy of My Romantic Adventures, but judging by the excellent stories in this issue it was apparently a fairly ambitious title: here is a sample cover that shows how risky they were willing to be. Unfortunately, the writing has too much of the sexist sensibilities of the 1950's for my tastes. The humbling lesson our heroine Jean learns at the end of the story makes very little sense and ruins an otherwise inventive (and intentionally hilarious) story.
I know I'm supposed to sympathize with Jean's loneliness, but check out that awesome pony.
Jean's afraid of jumping and any locomotion above a brisk walk? Okaaay. You can't really blame the local hoodlums for not wanting to hang around with her, games of standing in one spot and taking even breaths never really caught on with kids.
That's right, Jean. Bow to the peer pressure.
Jean really can't win, now that she's an adrenaline junkie it makes the guys feel like sissies! C'mon, what's a girl to do? Apparently not shooting grizzly bears at point blank rage. Maybe staying home and ironing the pleats on her skirts or bedazzling a sweater or something.
I kind of like the dweeb she ends up dating, he's got a really great hairdo going on. He sort of looks like a Dick Tracy felon, his name could be Moustache Head.
Things are looking promising for Jean, since at least Dan Baker has a full head of hair. Though Jean's acceptance of Dan begins with "I guess... you're the one for me!" and that doesn't sound very enthusiastic. Doesn't she really mean that he's the only guy besides Moustache Head who wasn't intimidated by her gator wrestling?
Dan probably thought Jean was joking when she said she would've killed him if he hadn't proposed, but this is Jean we're talking about. He'll never know that if he'd claimed he wasn't ready to commit he would've been turned loose in the family's hedge maze with a dagger and a canteen while Jean gave him what the grizzly got on page four.
Dan's water wings and his ability to drown in waist high water? So awesome.
Even though Dan's phobias are hilarious, I kind of have to sympathize with Jean's decision to end the engagement. This is 1960 we're talking about, so it's not like she could just go find him a doctor to pump him full of anti-depressants or force him into some kind of phobia therapy where you get a box of caterpillars dumped on your head. She's going to have to put up with him losing his shit whenever a spider gets in the house or sees an episode of Lassie. He's probably one of those really fussy eaters, too, so she'll be cooking his steaks until they're gray and won't be allowed to use any spice other than celery salt.
Do you see what happens when you act like a big pussy, Dan? Mountain goats die.
Even if his phobias weren't enough to turn Jean off, I think that Dan's checkered shirt would've ended the engagement.
Okay so maybe they did have therapy in 1960, because Dan's definitely got Jean psychoanalyzed. She does all these stunts because she's a coward. So I guess panicking at twenty feet makes Dan extremely brave.
Jean's fainting now because she didn't faint as a child? That's kind of sketchy. So is the convenient way that she's dangling over the mountain ridge.
Look, it's the autogyro! Is that what helicopters looked like back then, or did the artist just combine a helicopter and a cropduster? None of that matters, though, because look, in the sky! It's Fraidy Pants to the rescue, no matter how inexplicable that might be!
So it seems that Jean has learned her lesson. Despite all the canoe paddling, bronc busting and the slaughter of endangered species, it was she who was really the coward, while the man who was afraid of small dogs, caterpillars, elevators, devilled eggs, his own saliva, frilled toothpicks, the letter K and the volume knob on his radio is the real hero Whatever you say, 1960. I'm not buying it.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Strange Girl, 1973
Unlike many stories that use a bait and switch cover image to lure a reader in, Strange Girl is just as daring as this cover image implies. Everyone thinks our heroine Liz is a lesbian, even her own mother.
Let this be a lesson to all of the parents out there: general maintenance and yard work will turn your daughter into a lesbian. I know because one time when I was like 12, my parents let me rake some leaves to earn extra money and I spent the next six weeks having these feelings about Lynda Carter.
The artist who worked on this story isn't credited, but he must've worked for MAD at some point, because his style is very familiar and I keep expecting the story to turn into a parody of a 70's movie. It kind of distracts me from the awesome lesbian content.
I know I'm supposed to hate the catty girl in the second panel who strongly implies that our heroine Liz is a lesbian, but I kind of have sympathy for her. There she is in her best pink shirt with matching pink go-go boots, and the red-haired dork she's walking with just wants to talk about putting the town lesbian in a dress. Talk about a burn!
Thanks for the Veruca Salt dress, MOTHER. Where's my Golden Ticket?
It's a good thing that Agnes' mother is distracted by the pain of wearing about 14 pounds of industrial-size curlers, or else she might've picked up on the subtle clues that Agnes' bedroom is about to become Makeout Central.
Oh sure, let Agnes walk home alone, in the dark, with a crowd of lecherous basketball fans roaming the streets.
What's Fred's bag, anyway? I mean, first he's standing on the court during a basketball game, and faking whiplash, and now it's 10 minutes later and he's asking personal questions and trying to hold hands. I think he has boundary issues.
Smooth, Fred. Questioning a girl's sexuality is the perfect way to endear yourself to her. So is launching at her in the dark, come to think of it.
There goes Fred and his boundary issues again, now he's in love. I'm starting to think he really did bump his head and that puffy red hair of his is masking the contusion. Check out Liz's mother's ecstatic reaction: LIZ IS THERE A BOY? LIZ I AM CALLING GRANDMA RIGHT NOW SO SHE CAN WRITE YOU BACK INTO HER WILL!
Yeah yeah, don't we all wish for a boyfriend like Fred... to act as our unwitting beards.
So that's Strange Girl, and even though our heroine isn't a lesbian (I think that'd be too much to ask for) it's a pretty racy story regardless. It's the only story I've ever read where a character's sexuality is questioned, and it gives me an insight into why, when I was growing up girls' sports teams were always referred to as the powderpuff teams. Even well into my highschool years the girls played Powderpuff Football or Powderpuff Basketball. It was just a way of forestalling the lesbian jokes!
Friday, May 9, 2008
"I Dare Not Tell Him!" 1963
Today's story is from the May issue of Love Romances, a Marvel title that was published in May 1963. This is the first Marvel story I've scanned, and while Marvel can't compete with DC's quality, the art is decent and the stories are quite nice, with a naturalistic touch that you don't often find.
Some of you will be interested to know that all of the stories in this particular issue were written by Stan Lee, but don't get your hopes up about any crossovers: our heroine doesn't find herself on a blind date with Bruce Banner or copying her lecture notes for Peter Parker. Instead, she finds herself married to a creep on the first page of the story, which is definitely the wrong way to get a romance started.
I really like this cover, because the heroine looks completely spazzed out underneath that Jiffy Pop hairdo she's rocking.
What a minx, getting married at the beginning of the story. We all know this isn't going to work out, right?
I love Paul's rage, here he's just so pissed about those tickets. He'd probably have pistol whipped her if she overcooked his eggs or brought him the wrong slippers. The mother's comment that Bette was lucky to realize her mistake "in time", means while she was still a virgin. Girls who are damaged goods don't get to star in their own romance story, Bette!
Jesus, ask a girl out on a date, Stu. Don't make her stay late typing up reports while you admire her hair dome. Is it just me, or is Bette's hair growing larger? It appears to be collapsing under its own weight.
I've changed my mind, Bette is so guilty about the annulment that she must've stopped for a quickie with Paul before he figured out about those tickets. Also I can't believe Bette went out in the rain without an umbrella protecting her hair. Maybe she's fumbling in her pocket for a beehive-shaped rain bonnet.
Come to the park and mug me, Stu! Be my skulking footpad! In the fourth and fifth panels the Marvel artists were a little overwrought, you can tell they weren't used to drawing for girls. Stu looks like he's about to start like shaking Bette until spare change falls out of her pockets.
Oh shit, you were married for like 50 seconds, Bette. Stop being such a drama queen and kiss your boss! I think anything short of your boss whipping out his dick and insisting that you use it as a pen blotter wouldn't be considered sexual harassment in the 60's, and probably not even then.
New story on Monday, and make sure to vote in the new poll.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
For Love Alone (1969)
Well, I like boys who don't wear their Christmas ties in the summer.
Today's story is from the June-July 1969 issue DC's Heart Throbs. DC's romance comics were the best of the best in the post-code era, and I think you'll notice the change from Charlton's low budget wackiness right away. At DC, the plots make sense, the artwork is highly skilled, and the comic is actually competently printed: the wildly miscalibrated screens and mystery blotches that plague Charlton comics are absent here.
Contrast this simple little story of an ordinary girl with a commonplace problem to the bizarre things that befall Cleo Manson in my last post. Here instead of being pursued by banditos, our heroine Roseanne is just too shy to find herself a boyfriend, and her married sister and brother-in-law try to help her by setting her up on a date.
Judging by the squeaky clean dorkiness of the husband that Beth hooked for herself, I think Roseanne is justified in her fear of being set up by her and I suspect that her "shyness" is at least partially invented. God knows what kind of nerd is going to walk through that door.
I don't know the reason for it, but the guys in romance comics always look 15 years older than the girls, even when the characters are supposed to be the same age. I don't know if David is supposed to be older than Roseanne, or if he's just prematurely aged like all men in the 60's. Was it all the smoking and drinking and playing poker with oversized nudie cards? Maybe they sold frowning kits in the back of mens' magazines because it was impossible to get ahead with a smooth, unlined face.
Wait, why was Roseanne going to the square dance in the first place if she didn't like to dance? Oh, I bet she was a blast to bring to dances, making everyone awkward as she skulked around the edges of the crowd. At least she's coming out of her shell now, as evidenced by that pink panel - monochromatic panels always signify hormones. Lots of hormones.
See? That green panel is sizzling.
This is the second time David's shown up with a kind of gold bar on his jacket pocket, is he wearing a name tag? Maybe it's the pin he wears as a member of the DIRTY GIGOLO SOCIETY.
David's getting more lined with each page, but Roseanne doesn't care, she greens his panel and how.
The panel where Roseanne runs away weeping with her eyes closed is a DC story staple, along with the sexy monochromatic panels, sadder-but-wiser endings and dream sequences.
Now that I have the blog settled I'm going to be posting on a Mon - Wed - Fri schedule, and we'll see how that goes. So, look for a new post and a new poll on Friday.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Kiss or Be Killed (1969)
Charlton needed 10 pages to tell today's story, the ambitious Kiss or Be Killed. Set in the exotic land of May-hee-co, it seethes with the threat of violence and is populated with obnoxious Americans, leering banditos and perhaps worst of all ... geologists.
Kiss or Be Killed is really trying to have a message. It takes pains to let the reader know that racism is bad, and daringly shows an American girl kissing a Mexican. Perhaps even more tellingly, the bigot that finds this innocent kiss offensive earns himself a beating and the heroine's disdain. The main problem is that the writer and artist apparently learned everything they needed to know about Mexico from watching Speedy Gonzales cartoons, and the unfortunate use of the surname MANSON doesn't help, either. 
You know, I don't think I'd like to take a trip with Manson Bus Tours, no matter how nice the Yucatan might be. For one they don't seem to bother training their staff - does Cleo really think it's wise to open up the tour by admitting she's never been to Mexico before? She's just begging for a busload of mutiny.
The message is clear: you can kiss a Mexican as long as there's no tongue. Plus it's wrong to be racist. However, if you happen to insult a Mexican, you better get the hell out of town. Because they will cut you.
Can anything else go wrong on this tour? A guide who has never been to Mexico before, having to flee town before one of the paying customers is murdered, and now this creepy shack-dweller is telling them they narrowly avoided driving over a collapsed bridge. It's making the salmonella incident in Paraguay pale in comparison.
Okay, it just got worse, they're stopping until morning, and the creepy drifter is now apparently leading the whole shebang. Does anyone have overnight garments? Is there a toilet on the bus? Why is Cleo leaving the bus to go walking with the creepy dude that just hijacked her bus? How is it that she's still alive?
I have to disagree with the sentiments in Panel 2, because if any of this happened to me I'm pretty sure I wouldn't love telling about it later. Except maybe when I spoke to my lawyer roughly 30 seconds after I got home, to discuss litigation against Manson Bus Tours.
As obnoxious as Mr Lutz is, at least he has the sense to be skeptical about the bearded stranger who comandeered the bus and made them stop in an area inhabited by coyotes. I'm not sure what's up with the Fatso remark, or what's going on in the last panel - did Freer just punch Lutz in the... armpit? Whatever happened, it looks like it hurt. Smaaaaaaakk is pretty serious.
Okay so creepy drifter has led them into an ambush. Hands up, who saw this coming?
So let's try to get this straight. It was necessary to stop the bus so that the banditos could see Lutz get his ass beaten and for creepy drifter to kiss Cleo so she doesn't get assaulted. Couldn't all of this be avoided by, I don't know, fuckin' flooring it out of Mexico? It's not like they were in a vehicle, dude.
...and why is Cleo fantasizing about his tickly kisses and drifter breath?
"No Cleo... I'm respectable." Also kind of a dumbass who endangered your life to kiss you and expose Manson Bus Tours to what will be an inevitable lawsuit by Mr Lutz, but whatever.
I like how Larry secures his date with Cleo by letting her know that she has no choice in the matter. You better attend that fiesta, girl, or you don't even want to know how the locals will exact their revenge.
This is the first story I've scanned from Charlton's Career Girl Romances, but since the stories are definitely a cut above Charlton's usual fare you'll be seeing more of them.
