What do Superman, Orson Welles, and Mars have in common?

Apparently, this comic -- which I am sure I read as a kid but am now rediscovering in the process of introducing Thandie to various superheroes.



You've got to click to see the fine print, but here's part of it:

What on earth, or should we say, "what on Mars" is Orson Welles doing wearing that outlandish, ancient costume, and duelling with the fantastic huge-headed inhabitants o another planet? It all started in Italy, when the film "Black Magic," starring Orson Welles, was being filmed. Then a firecracker series of fantastic events blasted Orson Welles to Mars! Here he found himself fighting frantically to warn the world of a Martian invasion, this time a real one!

War of the Worlds has the synopsis:

The story featuring Orson Welles is called "Black Magic On Mars" and this does offer a clue that Welles or his publicists had a hand in the creation of the comic, for just as is recounted in the comic book, Welles was in Italy at the time, acting in a movie called "Black Magic". So this may well have been an early piece of creative cross-promotion, or equally plausible, the writer may just have read about Welles' project and decided to incorporate it. The story opens in Italy, with Welles atop a rooftop in the period costume of 18th century France, and just as in the climax of the film, Welles takes a fatal plunge.

Dusting himself off, Welles and his co-star Nancy Guild (she also was in the film playing Marie Antoinette), set off to attend a fancy dress party in their costumes. Driving through the Alps, they suddenly come across a rocket ship with its hatch open. As any fan of the science fiction of the period will know, this was a pretty common occurrence. Absent minded scientists were always building rocket ships in obscure locations and leaving the door open, and sure enough, curiosity gets the better of Welles, and he finds himself trapped in the rocket as it sets off for Mars.

Two hours later (that was some rocket engine), and Welles is stepping out onto the surface of Mars, where he is swiftly assailed by the Martians and brought before their leader, the Great Martler. The Martians speak English and goose step about like Nazi's, for Martler is an admirer of Hitler and has modelled his dictatorship after Nazi Germany, in which case, why don't they speak German? This linguistic peculiarity aside, Welles has arrived on the eve of a Martian invasion, and turning down Martler's offer of a job as propaganda minister on the soon to be conquered Earth, he uses his prop sword to seize control of a radio and broadcast a warning. Of course no one believes a word of it back on Earth, for as the listeners say, Welles has fooled America once before with his earlier broadcast. But Superman is not about to take any chances and speeds off to Mars, arriving just in time to prevent Welles getting disintegrated for his troubles.

The story goes into overdrive from here on, with Superman facing a fleet of one hundred thousand warships. It's a mighty challenge even for the Man Of Steel, but Orson has a plan, and a pretty insane one at that. Plucking one of the moons of Mars from its orbit, Superman fashions a slingshot from the thousands of miles of runways used to launch the fleet. Wrapping it round the moon, he sends it careering into the path of the invasion fleet, where they are helplessly snagged by its gravity and go harmlessly into orbit about it. Welles then sits a comatose Martler on his knee and performs an impromptu ventriloquism act to persuade his followers to give up on the plan of conquest. The Earth is saved, but poor Orson will never be believed.

So not the most realistic story imaginable, but enormous fun in its simplistic disregard of the laws of physics and nature.

Indeed!

Proof that music is good for something

For instance: winning a child custody case with a legal-brief-in-the-form-of-a-rap. The composition in question included such lines as these:

"Regarding frivolous filings, one thing is clear. Notice to show cause and proper service before you appear."

"And if Industrial vs. Marquardt is any measure, it's the frivolous allegations, not the venue of your endeavor."

"A domestic relations exception, I was supposed to know. Appellee would know too, so why did he spend so much doe?" [sic]

"Appellee dissed 814.04 for his 3 grand justification. But he forgets that 977.08 puts the brakes on his compensation."

All of which suggest that whoever wrote the story for WTMJ-TV doesn't have the slightest idea of what actually constitutes "good rhythm."

Sampling the Smorgasbord, no. 2: Cosmos: War of the Planets (1977)

Hard to believe this was a contemporary of Star Wars:



A bit hit-or-miss, but the good bits are good indeed (i.e., bad indeed; i.e., "good" indeed; i.e., ... oh, whatever).

Some highlights include:

1. The opening -- everything up through the credits in the above clip (though you should do yourself a favor and skip the rest of the above clip). Particularly entertaining: the over-reaction of the crew when they avoid a head-on collision with an asteroid.

2. The costumes -- skin-tight to the max (cameltoe alert!), accompanied by ridiculous headgear. How bad is the headgear? James Dean could not have made it look cool. (But how I would love to incorporate a look like that into the IJG costumery!)

3. The bad guy -- one of the most pompous and condescending robots I've ever seen in a sci-fi flick -- made all the more delicious by the fact that he actually refers to the human astronauts as "earthlings." You can cut the metallic, blinking-eye sarcasm with a knife. (Alas, there is no YouTube-ified footage.)

4. The screenplay -- in places, it's basically a string of unintentional non-sequitors.

5. The score -- I'm just guessing here, and it's just a hunch, but the music sounds like it was vaguely it was influenced by Wendy Carlos. Just vaguely, mind you.

6. A vampire! (Yeah, you read that right.)

Anyway. At some point I really need to untangle the above-mentioned "good" / "bad" knot, n'est-ce pas? Cuz I often find myself (perhaps more and more lately) defending the sort of cultural artifacts that, in the eyes and ears of other folks, are typically dismissed as "kitsch."

For now: I do think there can be something retrospectively artistic about something that was initially created without a whole lotta artistry. Which suggests that art isn't always about intentions. Hmmm, I'll chew on that for a while.

Reverse sleigh ride... from hell!

(This is right down the street from us.)

Sleigh ride... from hell!

So I was fighting the urge to gently tease my fellow Northwesterners for going into lockdown every time there are a few measly inches of snow -- compared to the great storms of my New Jersey childhood, the "severe weather" we're currently having on the upper left coast seems sort of wimpy.

But then I read about stuff like this:







From the news report:

A third charter bus with the group did not go down the hill after witnesses at the scene ran out and warned the driver to stop, and its passengers were all safe.

Witnesses said the third bus probably would have pushed the first one over the wall if it had come down the hill and lost control, as the first two did.

So I guess I'll skip it.

'Tis the season to buy stuff, part two

"Grow your own" and "nutcracker" -- a series of words I never imagined I'd see strung together someday.

But the fact is, we're growing our own nutcracker as I type.

So far, the operative word in the "Can grow up to 600% its size!" advertising blurb (in the upper right hand corner of the package) is "can." (Note that the wise Grow Your Own marketing scribe did not use the word "will.")

My favorite bit, though, is on the back of the package. In tiny text, we get the following disclaimer: "This toy is in no way intended to represent living people. Any resemblance is purely coincidental and not intended to harm anyone."

To which I can only ask: huh?

Anyway, get yours here.

The role of Vitamin D in beta-cell function

A PhD dance.

Something tells me I would have enjoyed grad school more if there had been less political backbiting and more of this sort of thing...

I did not choose la meme, la meme chose me

I'm generally not one to participate in these internet pass-arounds, but getting tagged by two people I respect in the space of a few weeks seemed to be a bit of an omen, so I figured I'd give in for a change.

Here are the rules. And here they are in a more recent permutation. Like David, I ended up going with the magic number eight.

What follows is incredibly boring -- though, on the flip side, it's not as bombastic as my usual posting fare. I tried to stay away from anything having to do with my so-called art, cuz I figured that if you read this blog you get enough of that already.

1. In high school, I was known as either "Andy" or "Durk." Some friends from that period of my life still refer to me that way, and I'm happy to let them (but if you weren't there, I generally discourage it). I don't know where those nicknames came from (I was always "Andrew" before high school). But I probably let them flourish because I thought they would help me attract girls somehow. (Boy was I wrong.)

2. When I was in junior high, my best friend was an Indian kid named Ajay Sharma. Our idea of fun was to throw rocks at each other, across a busy street, at rush hour. Many years later, in college, I was in an anti-fraternity called "Monkey Pus" -- a gang of first-year hooligans who basically wanted very little to do with the mainstream educational experience -- and one of our many truancy-oriented pastimes was to play pool as if it were basketball, attempting to throw the balls into the pockets instead of knocking them in with a cue. (Amazingly, no one ever got hurt.)

3. When I was a Boy Scout, I once got lost on Bear Mountain. This was in the context of a hiking trip. I have always had a problem with authority, and I disliked everything about being a Boy Scout, except for the fact that it provided me with a foil (enabling me to cultivate certain habits of resistance that I have found essential to survival in the adult world). Anyway, on this particular trip, a comrade and I decided to break away from the group, and we spent the better part of a day wandering around in the wilderness. We were finally reunited with our Scoutmaster just before sunset (and just as true panic was setting in).

4. In my worst nightmare ever, an evil magic Play Doh Fun Factory Extruder worked in reverse, sucking people and things through its tiny aperture, and converting them into a single nondescript lump of clay.

5. When I was in first grade, my mom -- bless her heart, she was a single mother trying to raise two kids on a budget -- always played barber to my brother and I. This was in the mid 70's, but Mom's idea of an appropriate hairstyle for male children was "so last decade": the tried-and-true crew cut. Perhaps this is where I developed an early appreciation for incongruity. In any case, I picked up the nickname "Peach Fuzz," because most of my classmates had true Eight is Enough manes, while my hair was always extremely short.

6. I can't stand organized sports, either as a participant or an observer. I'm sure this is at least in part because of my relationship with my father, who is a sports fanatic. (See also: my problem with authority, above.) To me, the idea of developing an affection for a specific team, following the exploits of a given player, or maintaining a knowledge of the stats and obscure rules of the game -- all of this seems like an absurd way to spend one's time. I have never understood the romance of it. Which is not to say I dislike physical activity or the thrill of casual athletics. But I can't help but experience any organized sporting activity through the ironic frame of the "Block that kick!" bit from "Revolution no. 9." It all seems vaguely fascist to me.

7. I have a hard time relaxing, in the sense of just kicking back and enjoying some activity not directly related (in my own mind, anyway) to what I consider "work." Related: I'm a pacer. Particularly when I'm writing, reading, or listening to music, I find it hard to sit still. So I walk around a lot. To some extent this has more to do with certain physical realities (limitations) -- chronic back pain, restless legs -- than a short attention span. Which is not to say I don't have a short attention span.

8. I once put a close friend through what I can only imagine was an extremely awkward kind of hell, by forcing his superior to force him to fire me from an office job that he had helped me get in the first place. Why did I let this happen? I was too lazy, distracted, and bored to take the damned job seriously. Sometimes I wonder if I'm ever going to grow up.

* * * * *

Alright, thanks to Matt and David for the tagging. I can't actually bring myself to pass the game along to anyone else (as I said, I'm no good at this sort of thing). But hell, since you got this far, I'd be happy to read your own list of random nonsense if you are so inclined to write it down. So consider yourself tagged if you want to be.

(Photo credit.)