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TALES FROM THE MOLEMAN ! Go Back to Creepy Classics Video
M. Oleman's Review of MONSTER BASH June 2014
But even though I was a little disappointed when I walked in the front door of the Bash Hotel (because of not being attacked by the Giant Claw and all) I was soon deliriously happy when the first person I saw looked exactly like Lumpy Rutherford from the old LEAVE IT TO BEAVER show. Unfortunately it wasn't him, just a lumpy hotel guest. But I was even happier when the next person I ran into looked exactly like Joel Hodgson from MYSTERY SCIENCE THEATER 3000, and was telling this person how much he resembled Joel when he tried to tell me that's who he really was. I just walked away and laughed it off as he followed me insisting he give me his autograph. What would Joel Hodgson being doing in Mars, PA? I'm not crazy. Next I ran into West Coast Horror Host Mr Lobo. For a West Coast Horror Host Mr Lobo sure spends a lot of time on the East Coast. I wish he would just pick a coast and stick with it. Maybe I'm just sour grapes because he beat me out of a really nice JAKE SPEED poster in Leonard's Lair of Loot in the Creepy Classics room, or maybe it's because he makes me uneasy selling all that kid's Play Slime. For all I know one day he will say the magic word or spin his hypno-device and all that slime will come to life and take over. Seeding the country with seemingly harmless Slime that becomes Blob-like on command is, well, to quote one of the lines from the runaway hit movie THE WRAITH, "It ain't cool." But I don't really think Mr Lobo wants to take over the world. He doesn't seem to have the drive or ambition of a Lex Luthor or a Doctor Doom or a Reverse Flash. Still, I think someone should keep an eye on him. I know I will.
I asked around a couple of times about Ron Adams, creator of the Monster Bash Convention, editor of Monster Bash magazine, and winner of the Betty Crocker Bakeoff of 1988 (they said), but whenever he was pointed out all I was left with was a blur of orange t-shirt and the lingering scent of Hai Karate aftershave in the area he recently vacated. I understand Hai Karate's his favorite and have already made inquiries about getting him a couple of gallons for an early birthday present. I think Ron avoids me because in the past I have repeatedly, through phone calls, registered letters, and singing telegrams asked him if I could live in his basement. But he needn't worry anymore because now I only strive to live in his garage. I really don't think that's asking too much.
Forry award winners were, as usual, a great bunch of people and if we ever start the town of New Vasaria I would like to live on their block. First there is Monster Bash comedian Don Reese who is a peach of a guy and the recipient of all my admiration because he apparently spends 362 days of the year preparing for the Bash disdaining all other work and endeavors. Just don't get in the cake line behind him or, if you have a solar array setup keep him away from it as he tends to blot out the sun quite a bit. I once saw Don flop down on a chair in the lobby of the Day's Inn. The fact that the chair did not break tells me it must have been one of those rare pieces of furniture that survived the destruction of the Planet Krypton and somehow ended up in Butler, Pennsylvania. Then there is Brian Nichols who is also a filmmaker but not of the renegade type like David "the Rock" Nelson. I'm not sure what the difference is, but he doesn't have a pocket full of rubber monsters and people don't run when they see him. They actually seem to look forward to seeing his movies. In New Vasaria Brian would live next door to me and I would sometimes borrow his weedwacker and not return it for weeks at a time, and rather than ask for it back he would just go buy a new one. That's the kind of neighbor I want. And what can one say about Lorraine Bush? No one is more deserving of a Forry.. She is a great artist and her work is much admired and appreciated.
The Abbot and Costello Tribute Show were as usual, wonderful. When Bill Riley and Joe Ziegler as Bud and Lou pushed the large prop crate from ABBOTT & COSTELLO MEET FRANKENSTEIN, through the dealer area bumping tables, knocking over merchandise and getting jammed into corners as they argued with each other, I thought it was the funniest thing I had ever seen. I wish someone had filmed it. I could watch a whole two hour movie of Bud and Lou pushing a huge crate around the Bash dealer area. Where's David "the Rock" Nelson when you need him? And speaking of the crate and all those other great props, the guillotine, the chair, and the stocks from ABBOT & COSTELLO MEET FRANKENSTEIN, they were all made by Bash Staffer Dan Weber. You may have seen Dan wandering the halls of the Bash. He's strangely tall with long billowing hair and a great, bushy beard. He looks like the kind of guy who might get kicked out of a nice hotel like the Four Points Sheraton, so I went to management and put in a good word for him. It turns out Dan was OK but I was almost ejected. However, once again my John Agar Lifetime Fan Club membership card saved the day although I think I am on some kind of Double Secret Probation that may have something to do with my nonexistent credit rating. I had a great time at the Monster Bash, as usual. I wandered the hallways for three days taking only short breaks in the parking lot to eat out of a vintage Thermaster cooler in the back of the Roadmaster. I hobnobbed, mingled and rubbed shoulders with old friends, new aquaintances, assorted basement dwellers, serious movie geeks, monster lovers and many most noble fellow drinkers. Everyone was kind, decent, charitable and good natured which made me proud to be a citizen of Earth and not someplace like Metaluna or Arous.
I'm told there is another Bash in October. Can it be so? A mere three months away? If I had a schedule I would clear it. If I had a job I would demand time off. Three months. Barely enough time to watch the latest interminably long movie I purchased from "the Rock", get my wingtips resoled and petition the Smithsonian for a John Agar Wing. -M. Oleman, somewhere along the road in western Pennsylania
Labor Day...School's Back! The latest surreal document filed by our feature writer....the one, and thankfully, only....M.Oleman:
The place was dark except for a small, dim light behind the counter where Big Sid sat surrounded by a pile of comic books
Then when we he noticed me glancing over his right shoulder at the row of crock pots emitting steam he added "I said barely. I refuse to leave the shop or order in on this most depressing of days. I am hunkered down with my own supplies for the duration. I'm sure Ben Grimm did this exact same thing in the Baxter Building on occasion"
Sid sighed as he turned a page "Oh! that I could be as Superboy and fly into the future to battle evil with the Legion Of Superheroes only returning to my own time when this awful weekend was over" he said as he took a large bite of jelly donut.
"They shall not pass!" Sid yelled as he grabbed a long stick of pepperoni and held it over his head with both hands. "Oh my Aunt Minerva, it's horrible out there!" he panted. "It seems like summer. It feels like summer. The grass still needs cutting and mosquitoes are still out in force, but summer is over! Pools are closing like dominoes falling and Back To School sales are everywhere! It's my childhood all over again! Happy and carefree and running wild one day then the axe falls and my mom says "School starts on Tuesday. We better get you some new shoes." He struggled to his feet and grabbed Big Sid by the collar of his Captain America T-shirt. "I can't go back out there! I won't! Don't send me back out there!" he pleaded. "My dear Shlobbo" Sid said as he spewed bits of Limited Edition Roasted Corn On The Cob Potato Chips in Joe Shlobottsky's face, "Big Sid knows full well the horror of back to school memories. The thoughts of clothes shopping in the Husky section of Gimbel's Bargain Basement haunt me to this day. I grant you sanctuary. But please buy something." Shlobbo breathed a sigh of relief and lay back down on the floor and the three of us quietly looked out the storefront windows. "I heard Peeler Malloon's mom made him sign up for classes at Community College just so she could take him shopping for new clothes" I said breaking the silence. "Diabolical" Sid said shuddering a little as he chewed on a piece of garlic bread. We were quiet for a while again till a small boy walked up to the display window and looked in forlornly. It seemed only yesterday that I had helped Sid build the diorama in the window. We filled a small tub with water and poured sand around it then added monsters and army men and a small town being destroyed. There was even a flying saucer dangling overhead from a string. There were a few cobwebs on it now, and Sid's cat, "Mr Sardonicus" had knocked some things over, but it was still quite an attraction to the neighborhood kids.
"Poor kid" I said. "It's back to school for him tomorrow." Then suddenly there was a loud booming sound that I thought was a transformer exploding outside but was actually Sid jumping down from his chair. "It ends here!" he shouted as he rummaged around behind the counter and came out with a copy of Monster Bash magazine. Then, lumbering over to the door, he turned the latch, and motioned to the boy. "Come here, Lad" he said quietly. "You go back to school tomorrow, don't you?" The boy nodded and Sid handed him the magazine. "Take this with you to school tomorrow" he said. "Read it, study it, absorb it. Hide it in your binder. When they try to make you sit still and learn, discretely pull this out instead. When they try to teach you to diagram a sentence, draw the monsters!" "And if they try to get you to memorize the capitol of Finland" Shlobbo shouted from behind the shadow of Big Sid, " just tell them "if I'm ever in Finland, I'll ask someone!" It's that simple!""And when the chalk is screeching on the blackboard and the spitballs are hitting the back of your head and all seems lost" Sid said "open this book and read about the greats! Chaney! Karloff! Lugosi! Price!"
"Agar!" I yelled out from behind Sid. The boys eyes were as big as pie plates as he took all of this in and craned his neck to try to see around Sid. "I'll tell you a secret, lad" Sid said as he leaned down close to the boy, "Big Sid was not a good student. I did not excel in academics, or sports, or after school activities.I was not popular and did not belong to any clubs, and the smell and mess emanating from my locker was a constant source of concern to the school authorities. But!..." he shouted as he drew himself up to his full height and spread his arms wide like an emperor lording over his empire, "Look at me now!"
The boy looked up at Sid wide eyed and cradled the magazine close. "Go now" Sid said, "And spread the word." The boy smiled and took off running and Sid stood there a while watching him till he turned the corner. He then closed the door and turned the latch. "I feel lighter" he said as he climbed back up on his high backed stool. "I feel as if I've made a difference. Maybe it won't be so bad for him." "And maybe that magazine will be passed around. The word will spread" said Shlobbo. "And even if it's confiscated by a teacher" I said "Maybe that teacher will secretly take it out of their desk and take it home and read it later. Teacher's are human too. I guess." "You can't stop an idea!" Sid said. "Someday every level of the school may be infiltrated and compromised. The principal may come to school wearing a Mummy t-shirt and there will be mandatory classes on Lugosi's Monogram Nine and why the Swordsman was really a pretty good Avenger." "And it all started here."
Outside the sky was getting dark and Labor Day was almost over. I had made it through another one.
M. Oleman Brings Up....Joe Besser!
"What did you say?" he asked peering at me intently. "Joe Besser" I said. "I love him. He's hilarious." "Have you told anyone else about this?" he asked suspiciously. "I may have mentioned it at the diner a little while ago" I said wondering what the problem was.
"Great Ceasar's Ghost!" Sid shouted as he jumped off his stool with a thump rushing to the door where he stuck his head out and looked up and down the street. "Were you followed here? Did anyone tail you?" he said frantically as he pulled his head back in and locked the door.
"He carried THE JOEY BISHOP SHOW" I said. "It should have been called "THE JOE BESSER SHOW." "And what about his appearances on THE JACK BENNY SHOW and THE DANNY THOMAS HOUR? And his final work as the voice of Cupid in MY SMURFY VALENTINE?" Sid shouted, "Genius!" Then he leaned in close staring at me intently. The strong smell of Salami and Clubman Special Reserve Cologne assaulted my nostrils and I could see the sweat trickling down his neck. "But we must not speak of such things" he said, "We may be overheard." I looked left and right and over my shoulder. "By whom?" I said barely audibly. "Them" he said cryptically. "Those that do not know. The unenlightened. The benighted." Then he took a key off his belt and reached under the counter and pulled out a strong box. He unlocked the box with the key and pulled an old skeleton key out of the box. "What I am about to show you" he said very seriously, "has not been seen by another human being for many, many years. I must swear you to complete secrecy. Much as Jimmy Olsen was sworn to keep undisclosed the location of the Fortress Of Solitude."
The convention attendees were outnumbered by the Curly Joe DeRita fans protesting in the parking lot. The local media showed up to do a humorous story about us. The hotel was angry. The vendors were angry. My mother was angry. We ended up slinking out the back door that night, loaded everything up in a van and brought it back here where it has stayed ever since. We all had to disappear for a while after that. Three Fingers and Cha Cha headed out west. I think they ended up working at a Woolworth's in Pocatello. Pudge Willis lost himself in the shadowy Gumby collectors underground and Bill the Wizard got a job as a travelling shower curtain salesman. I locked the shop up and joined the Navy."
As I turned to leave Sid grabbed my arm and looked at me seriously. "May the Besser be with you" he said, then opened up a copy of "Once A Stooge, Always A Stooge" by Joe Besser, put his head down and began reading. I went outside making sure the door to Sid's place was locked behind me and walked to my car slowly. I leaned against the back of the Roadmaster lost in thought as an old woman walking a poodle passed by me scowling. I looked down at the bumper sticker and knew what I had to do. I peeled off the backing marveling at how tacky the glue still was after all these years, and applied the sticker to the bumper of my car. In big red letters four inches high it stared up at me: JOE BESSER LIVES! Indeed he does I thought to myself. He is in our hearts always. You just have to be careful who you admit it to. END.
Hi Ron, Just a comment on the Joe Besser article By M. Oleman,I had the pleasure of Meeting Joe Besser way back in 1983 when the Three Stooges were awarded a Star on Hollywood BLVD, which was long overdue,and was sponsored by Radio Jock Gary Owens,recently passed. I too believe that Joe Besser was an underrated comic and believe he was funny in his own style ,although his pacing was not as fast as the original Stooges, he did get more laughs then Curly Joe, the last Stooge. I for one can say that when A Joe Besser short runs I am one of the few Stooge fans that doesn't run for the door. -Jay Moe Novelli, Former Moe Howard Impersonator.
M. Oleman is back and he's remembering the fighting we all did as kids....Danger Will Robinson, Danger!
Anything and everything that we could pick up and throw was picked up and thrown. We’d chuck the biggest rocks we could find at each other trying to get as close as possible without actually landing one on target. A really near miss would elicit a, “Whoa! You almost tore my head off!” which was just a challenge to try and get one closer. Dirt clods also made good ammunition because they exploded like a grenade showering the intended target with shrapnel, and we were fortunate enough to live in a part of the country where Buckeye trees were everywhere. Starting in late summer we'd gather the green, spiky shells and add them to our armory. As Summer turned into Fall, they'd turn brown and get even spikier. There was a trick to throwing them because they couldn’t be gripped too tightly, but once mastered you practically had a super power. In fact I’m surprised Marvel Comics never thought of it. And then of course the shells would pop open (or be pried open) yielding the round Buckeyes inside which, since they couldn’t be eaten, seemed to have no other purpose than to be thrown. We gathered buckets full of them, much to our parent’s chagrin, so we always had some on hand. We said we were saving them to make some kind of crafts, or for a school project, but really we were just never sure when we'd need to lay a barrage on a target of opportunity, which was just about any time from early fall until winter when we’d switch to snowballs. Somewhere in my parents old house there is probably still a stash of Buckeyes hidden because you just never knew when a Buckeye battle would break out.
Burrs were also great to throw, though their light weight made them more of a close-in weapon. The best tactic was to gather a good handful, hide them in your pocket, then toss them in someone's hair just as the bell rang and you were going into the classroom. Few things were funnier than seeing someone angrily struggle to pull them out of their hair while the teacher looked on scowling. But retribution was swift and assured. The safest defense was to keep a hat on as often as possible.
Then there was the occasional bloody accident such as the time me and my best friend Steve and all of our little brothers and sisters were sled riding in a neighbor's yard. For some reason Steve started swing his sled around in a crazy, erratic manner. This sled was one of those sheer pieces of plastic with a length of rope at the end that cost about two dollars and was probably just a way for some plastic manufacturer to get rid of the excess in some process. The sled sliced me over the eye and blood spurted everywhere. All the kids were shrieking and screaming and the owner of the house was beside herself with worry that I was mortally wounded, and even though I could barely see with the blood flowing down my face my main thought was, "Must make up a lie to protect Steve." Which I did pretty quickly as I was used to covering for him. I think I said something about him being distracted because he thought he saw a Flying Saucer which made him slip sending his sled up into the air and even though he desperately tried to regain control of it he couldn’t because he was wearing his older brother’s hand me down galoshes which were too big for him. Imagining it in slow motion helps. So I ended up in the emergency room and he went home to watch cartoons, safe and warm and comfortable knowing that I would not tell what really happened and break the kid code against squealing. I'm not sure exactly what he was trying to do, but since we were always convinced we could fly maybe he thought if he swung the sled around over his head in a circular motion fast enough he would develop sufficient vertical lift to take off. But the following summer the universe was rebalanced when we were playing one of our famous games of three on three baseball and I cracked a line drive into Steve's left eye. This caused him to throw his glove in the air and start running around in circles in a Daffy Duck-like manner yelling his head off, which as we all knew, helped to ease the pain. Frankly I’m surprised they don’t teach this in medical school. Anyway, it was important that the injuries evened out and a kid that didn’t get hurt every now and then was viewed very suspiciously. For all we knew he could be one of those Pod people. They were everywhere, as we learned on Chiller Theater.
END
Tales of The MoleMan By M. Oleman Special Edition! Here it is, unedited and revealed to the public...this was found in my e-mail from M. Oleman and I've alerted the proper authorities -Ron Adams. Here is the e-mail from Oleman: The following is a true story. More or less.
Somehow, someway I had been imprisoned in a Monster Bash Monopoly Game. I was a playing piece. The mountains were decks of Chance and Community Chest cards. Was I dreaming? Or was this reality and my other life a dream? How could this be? What fiendish level of Hades was I in where this was possible and what could I have done to deserve such a fate? Was is because I cut the the Marvel Value Stamps out of my comic books when I was a kid, thus ruining their collectible value for future generations? That was an awful long time ago. But then it occurred to me that if I had to be tortured in this manner at least I looked like a tiny John Agar. And then once again the great thundering sound as the two huge blocks, which I now knew were dice, tumbled across the landscape and I found myself gripped by a giant hand and moved forward. The space I landed on said Wrath Of Ursula Lose A Turn. "NO FAIR!" a voice rumbled with the sound of a thousand trumpets. More dice were rolled and other players moved their pieces around the board. A hearse moved past me and on the other side of the board I noticed a tiny Inspector Krogh and little plastic ramshackle houses. I felt myself moved again and landed on a spot that said David "the Rock" Nelson Movie Marathon-Lose 2 Turns.
"NOOO FAIRRR!!" the voice roared again, evidently angry at the capricious results of the roll of the dice. At this point even though I could not move I was able to strain my eyes upward, and to my utter horror found myself looking upon the enormous Mount Rushmore-sized head of Monster Bash Staffer Ted Lewcyk. You who attend the Monster Bash Conference are perhaps familiar with Ted's gregarious personality and smiling face, often at registration or in the Creepy Classics room. But he wasn't smiling now. His eyes were flaming red and spittle was flying from his lips. "NOOO FAIRRR!!" he yelled again, and at that point I knew what was coming next. With both hands he gripped the edges of the game board and flipped it into the air. I tried to brace myself but my puny, cast metal arms hung uselessly at my side. Dice and cards flew by my head. One card read Monster Bash Dealer Room Infested with Bats-Exterminator Fee $100 and another read Bail Igor Out Of Jail $50. I tumbled over and over as plastic haunted houses and New Vasaria Dollars swirled around me. The last thing I remember was seeing Monster Bash Staff members locked in a death struggle with their hands around each other's throats while a fire burned out of control in the background.
Then I woke up. I was tangled in my BEAST OF YUCCA FLATS bed sheets and found that in my thrashing I had knocked off my nightstand the replica of the laboratory from BEGINNING OF THE END that I had built out of macaroni. To calm myself down I went to the kitchen and followed my usual routine of chugging a large glass of Great Bluedini Kool-Aid and reading a chapter from The Mothman Prophecies. Monster Bash 2015 was great as usual, but it always leaves me with nightmares. October Bash 2015 in less than two months. In my head I'm already there.
October's Here Here's the latest from our feature correspondent from parts unknown....M. Oleman and take on the season:
Then, I thought of the jovial policeman who showed up that night and actually went tromping through the woods across the street looking for them in what became known as the "Case Of The Purloined Pumpkins." I thought of rigging up a ghost on a pulley line between our house and the neighbor's tree and waiting for people to walk by so we could scare them. I thought of home made costumes stored in the attic and row and rows of monster costumes at the 5 & 10 on the main street. I thought of ghosts made out of tissue paper and Jack O Lanterns cut out of orange contruction paper and taped to the windows of the storm door on the old house, then carefully saved to be used again and again. I thought of the thrill of Halloween night, roaming the dark streets when everything seemed possible and anything could happen. I thought of candy and apples and gum and Linus and the Great Pumpkin.
Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the side view mirror leaning back in the seat with a dreamy, dopey look on my face and I realized how lucky I was and that the world was probably not ending today. It couldn't. At least not until November 1st.
Below is the latest e-mail coming in from M. Oleman...a rambling array of monsters, memories and weirdness that is all abouy being a Monster Kid of the 1960s-1970s...
And if you have been wondering about the political bent of the the Monster Bash Staffers, I can tell you that as I listened in on their conversations while looking through the many boxes and boxes of movies for sale (but still no BRAIN FROM PLANET AROUS Part 2), that they are all solid Taft men. That is to say, supporters of William Howard Taft, 27th President of the United States. Their thinking seemed to be along the lines that Taft was exceedingly likable and re-electable because of his Presidency being defined by the 350 pound executive being stuck in a bathtub at one point. One staffer even brought in a small, plastic statuette of the Ex-President which adorned their table. Enthralled by their discussion I thought of a good campaign slogan which I could barely keep to myself: Taft: Let's Dig Him Up And Run Him Again. It took all of my will power to not blurt it out but I thought it impolite to intervene.
When hanging around in the lobby I ran into another fellow whose name was either Tom, Dick or Harry (Again I lean towards Tom....or, is it Ei leen towards Tom? The English language continues to baffle me) who told a story of going to the movies as a boy to see the great Toho film, THE MYSTERIANS, then begging his mom to help him dress up as one of the sartorially splendid aliens for Halloween. Much thought was put into finding and spray painting a helmet and acquiring the matching cape and tights from someplace where it was possible to purchase such things. It helps to live close to a matching cape and tights store evidently. However, when the big day came and he was out Trick or Treating, he found to his dismay that not a soul knew what he was supposed to be, and even after he informed them they remained in the dark. Now here's where I can really sympathize because whenever I go out in public to get my oil changed or pick up the latest issue of The Croquet Gazette and I am dressed as a Mysterian, I have the same problem. Not only that but often local authorities are called in. A superhero wearing tights and a cape would get harassed endlessly in this town.
I enjoy myself at the Bash. Not quite as much as when I watch THE CREEPING TERROR backwards in slow motion but darn close. The Monster Bash may not be the biggest convention of its sort. Or, the flashiest. But one feels at home here. Almost as much as when you are in your own abode scrunched under the desk in the basement eating a bowl of Post Toasties while reading the back of the cereal box. Here at the Bash you will find an intimate atmosphere where honored guests, attendees and vendors all congregate, trading stories, quips, jokes, bon mots and other pleasantries. And speaking of jokes, Bill Riley and Joe Ziegler, who make up the Abbot & Costello Tribute Show as Bud and Lou, are regulars at the Bash(es) and make you feel you are actually in the presence of the great comedy team. They put on several performances but they also just wander around joking and goofing off and getting in the way. Just like the real Bud and Lou would do. What I wouldn't give to wake up one morning to find Bud and Lou at my front door asking for a job or a cheese sandwich or to borrow a quarter. And it strikes me that when all the checks and balances of life are added up, bringing Bud and Lou to life for future generations to enjoy in person long after they have passed on to the other side will be measured quite high indeed.
Now as I finish typing this missive on my old Underwood Number Five I find that I have thought of another campaign slogan: Taft: Dead For 85 Years But Still The Best Man For The Job. -M. Oleman, From a secret, undisclosed basement
Monster Kid M. Oleman Remembers & Rambles!
Inside the shop there was a lot going on. Quite a few of the gang were present, mainly because this was a good place to spend a dreary late winter's day but also because most of them were unemployed and didn't have much else to do. Big Sid was on his perch behind the counter devouring the biggest Reuben sandwich I had ever seen. He looked up and nodded at me as I walked in then yelled out "IS ANYONE GOING TO BUY ANYTHING!?" causing Freddie Dobb (aka Dobb the Blob) to shrink back into a corner trying to hide himself among a stack of boxes of unsold ZARDOZ action figures (Sid had vastly overestimated the movies appeal), and Shlobbo Shlobbotsky to duck down behind an old issue of "Sad Sack And The Sarge" he was reading. Everyone else avoided eye contact with Sid and just sort of milled around until he gave up glaring and went back to his lunch (the second one of the afternoon). I mingled in with the boys and dispensed with witticisms and bon mots and such. I asked Diapers how his mom's bowling team was doing (the QueenPins) and I slipped the Pale Dude the sawbuck I owed him over that bet I lost regarding Fred Flintstones' alias in the racing episode (It was Goggles Paisano not Miles as I had thought). But the real action in the store was Weepy Mackles and Bob "the Loaf" Johnson who were engaged in a fierce battle of Stratego. They eyed each other across an old, orange Samsonite card table that Sid kept around for just such purposes. The stakes were high. Weepy had put up his near mint copy of Superman #199 which had Superman and the Flash racing, and the Loaf put up his near mint copy of Spiderman #129 featuring the first appearance of the Punisher. When I walked over the Loaf was sweating bullets as he was doing poorly in game 4 out of 7 which would give Weepy a clean sweep.
"What marks?" the Loaf asked as he mopped his forehead.
The kid pointed to one of the Loaf's red playing pieces and we all bent down to have a closer look. There was a tiny, black mark noticeable on several of them. Almost indiscernible unless you were really concentrating. "Stinker! Swindler! Bilker!" The Loaf fumed."Narwhale! Gaboon! Plumbob! Filch!" (this last one was obviously a reference to an alien from the Cosmic Encounter board game and a pretty low blow). They grappled and grabbed at each other, but to call what they were doing a fight would be an insult to all forms of unarmed combat and martial arts that ever took place in the history of mankind. They looked more like a couple of flounder flopping around on the deck of a boat. They rolled back and forth sputtering and yelping incoherently (I swear I heard one of them shout "Eisenhower!') and doing no real damage to one another. Finally, as they looked like they were tiring each other out a couple of the guys grabbed them and pulled them apart. "Lemme at 'im! Lemme at 'im! Don't hold me back!" Weepy yelled at Peeler Maloon who was making no attempt at all to hold him back. Just then a loud, bashing sound interrupted us all and we turned to the front counter to see Sid slamming his commemorative Mjolnir, Hammer of Thor on the counter.
"Gentlemen" he said when he had our attention, "you have on this day soiled the honorable pastime of boardgaming which dates back as far as ancient China and the game of GO. And Unterofficizier Georg Leopold von Reiswitz, inventor of the game Kriegspeil in 1812, is rolling over in his grave" he said pronouncing the spiel in Kriegspiel as shpeel. Sid heaved a large sigh and sat back in his chair brushing some stray crumbs off his chin. There was a little murmuring and someone gasped (presumably at the thought of cleaning Big Sid's bathroom. Harsh punishment indeed) then everyone started filing out the door at once jostling and shoving with Weepy and the Loaf doing their best to give each other the evil eye. "So once again no one one buys anything" Sid said as he chewed. "How ever will I make the next payment on my yacht?" Thousand Island dressing dribbled down the front of his Elongated Man t-shirt as he watched the motley crew depart, then turned his attention to me. I looked around at the over turned card table and the Stratego pieces scattered everywhere and then down at the kid whose excellent eyesight had started it all. He pulled his pockets inside out and peered back up at me and made me feel that maybe, since I was the grownup, (more or less) I should contribute something to grease the wheels of commerce. So I reached down and picked up a few dusty packs of A Team cards that had been on the shelf forever. Or at leas since 1985. I paid Sid in quarters and dimes and opened them up in my car. It was a total gyp. Not a single Howling Mad Murdock in the bunch.
Tales of the MoleMan by M. Oleman John Agar's Jacket
I was at a yard sale on the South Side rummaging through a box of old toys trying to beat the kid next to me to the good stuff. So far I had found several slightly chewed Mad Balls and what looked like part of the foot from the Aurora Creature From the Black Lagoon model. Meanwhile the kid dug up a very tattered and dog-eared copy of issue #7 of The Creeper with a great Ditko cover, which he wouldn't give up no matter how much I pleaded. The kid dug through boxes and every once in a while another kid, bigger and older, probably his brother, would come by and hit him and tell him to hurry up, which made me nostalgic for the days when I used to boss around my kid brother. I was having a good time and thankful for the great bounty of junk that abounded when I saw the jacket. THE jacket.
"Ahhh, the jacket" he said as I put in on the table. He had a knowing look that said he knew exactly what he had, and made it seem that he knew that I knew. At this point I wasn't sure what his game was, but I was not about to quibble or chance losing out. I pulled five $20 bills out of my pocket and laid them in front of him. "A hundred dollars?" he said incredulously, and seemed about to expound on this when I stopped him by holding up my hand. I then reached into the other pocket and pulled out another hundred. His eyes widened but he said nothing, just looked down at the cash. He was playing it right up to the brink. A shrewd bargainer. I studied him for a few seconds then stooped over and leaned in close. He had an aromatic breath. Shlitz, or maybe Iron City. With a hint of corned beef. "Look" I said talking in a growled whisper, "we both know what's going on here, but I've only got so much cash on me. If you wanted the full value of the jacket you should have taken it to London and had Sotheby's or Christies auction it off. But I'm here right now in front of you with cash."
He was about to say something but I held up my hand cutting him off, then reached down to my right boot where I always kept a $50 bill folded up and tucked into the laces. This was my emergency money, in case I ran across an old forgotten stockpile of Banana Flips or a set of hubcaps for a 1965 Rambler Classic. I layed it on top of the pile of money and watched his eyes carefully. He made a grab for the cash but I stopped him by slamming my hand down on the stack of bills before he could touch it. He was holding something back. His eagerness to make a deal made me suspicious. We stared at each other for a year while birds chirped and an old lady came up and slapped down 50 cents for a VHS copy of KRULL. I cursed myself for missing that but tried to stay on track. Reaching into my pocket I pulled out a crumpled piece of paper which when unfolded turned out to be a page from a Mighty Mouse coloring book. How that got into my pocket I hadn't the faintest, but I turned it over to the blank side and wrote "I, the undersigned freely and without duress give up all rights forever in perpetuity to the John Agar jacket." Shoving the paper across the table I said simply "sign." He shrugged his shoulders, muttered "whatever" and scribbled his signature. I then grabbed the paper away as he snatched up the money. Holding the jacket in the air over my head I gave a whoop of triumph that reverberated off the nearby houses and sent aflight the mourning doves resting on the wires above. I slipped the jacket on slowly and carefully. It fit like a glove. I was suddenly in the caves below Mount Kuitara. I could hear the shrieks of the Mole People and the pontificating of the High Priest. The former owner of the jacket just sat staring at me. I could only interpret his look as one of shock as the full realization of what he had done sunk in. After all, I now possessed the John Agar jacket and all he had was a wad of increasingly worthless Federal Reserve Notes. Nothing but paper. Lousy money.
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Creepy
Classics Video |
I arrived at the Monster Bash a little later than I had planned, mainly because I had to stop every few miles and scan the horizon for THE GIANT CLAW which I had been told was in the area. And even though this turned out to be a false alarm I suggest everyone get on the Giant Claw Alert List as soon as possible, just to be on the safe side. You get a pretty nice lapel pin, a certificate to hang on the wall, and peace of mind that is priceless.
Speaking of "the Rock", I really don't even try to resist him anymore. When I see him at the Bash and he smiles his disarming grin as he reaches into his old Marine Corps duffle bag I just handed him twenty dollars and take whatever movie he gives me. It's almost as if I'm in a hypnotic trance. It is only later after the Bash when I'm alone in my basement do I realize the full horror of what I've done. Yet still, I look forward to his FISHMAN movie. Is there something wrong with me? Do I need help? The answer on both counts of course is yes.
It was Labor Day weekend. The sun beat down on stale, stagnant air that made me feel like a hamster trapped in one of those plastic exercise balls rolling around on blacktop. School started tomorrow for all those poor, wretched kids out there, one of whom I used to be, and that brought all the bad memories bubbling back to the surface like the sulphur pit behind Frankenstein's castle. I went to the best place I knew for comfort and solace and commiseration: Big Sid's Comic Shop. I dragged myself to the door and grabbed hold of the handle with a sweaty paw but found it to be locked. Impossible. Sid never took a day off
"Shoe shopping" I said "Is what always did me in. When my mom took me to buy new shoes then I really knew vacation was over. To this day I can't even walk by a shoe store the last week of August without getting heart palpitations."
We sat in stoney silence for a while, the only sounds being Sid turning pages and sighing and the hum of the old air conditioner struggling to cool the room. All was quiet for a while when suddenly our reverie was broken by the sound of someone furiously turning the door knob.
"And now if you gentleman will excuse me" Big Sid said as he swiveled his chair to the right and leaned in close to his crock pots, "I want to be alone with my Pot Roast."
Then Joe Shlobbotsky crawled over to the corner and made a pillow out of a pile of Kammandi comics, curling up next to Mr. Sardonicus, and I dragged my lawn chair between two comic book racks. I looked up at the comforting "Hey Kids! Comics!" and settled in with Marvel Team Up #36 that had the Frankenstein Monster battling SpiderMan. A good issue.
I parked in an alley across from Big Sid's comic book shop under a sign that said "Poodle Owners Parking Only." The spot was a little small but I managed to squeeze the Roadmaster in without too much trouble. I crossed the street to Big Sid's Comic Book Shop noticing that the "O" was out on his old neon OPEN sign so it only read "PEN". I took a long pull from a flask of grape Kool Aid and savored the irony. Inside Big Sid was busy behind his counter reading a copy of the Giant Size Avengers #2 from 1974. It was a good issue. I had a well read copy at home myself. I looked around glad to be out of the bitter cold and into the warm and familiar environment of the shop where Big Sid's cat "Mr Sardonicus" napped in a nest of Sad Sack comics and I was surrounded by old and familiar things. I chit chatted with Sid a little and the subject turned towards old movies, something we both loved. We stared talking about The Three Stooges and I mentioned how much I liked Joe Besser when he joined the trio. Sid got very quiet then, put down the sandwich he was eating and stared at me in a strange way.
"Well, yes I've always been a big fan" I said wondering what Sid was so worked up about. "His comic ability was greatly under appreciated. And his acting in general. Why he didn't win an Oscar for his death scene in HAND OF DEATH I'll never know" I said. "And how about his role in THE DESERT HAWK as Prince Sinbad?" Sid said. "Or as Oswald "Stinky" Davis on THE ABBOTT & COSTELLO SHOW?" 
"Three years later I came back," he said. "It had all blown over by then. I opened the store back up and continued on as if nothing had happened."
We got hurt a lot as kids. It was part of the job which we understood when we signed on. And when we weren't hurt accidentally we were trying our best to clobber each other on purpose. The idea seemed to be that you didn't want to harm or disfigure someone so that they'd end up haunting an Opera House, but just to the point of making them dance around in pain or shed a tear or two.
We crashed on our bikes so much my dad suggested we just run away and become daredevils in the circus. I think he was serious. In fact I think he said one time, “I’m serious. Go get a job in the circus. And send money home.” And playing Knights of the Round Table was another game that usually produced a few casualties. We’d charge at each other with sticks and broom handles slashing and smashing and making a terrible racket trying our best to score a hit on an exposed arm or leg just like the real Knights did as we saw on IVANHOE which the local TV station seemed to show every Thanksgiving. It wasn’t our fault. Whoever invented steel garbage can lids with the handle in the middle making them perfect to use as a shield had to know what would happen. It was entrapment.
One kid who lived down at the end of the street seemed to be especially prone to getting himself banged up. He went out long to catch a Hail Mary pass during one of our football games in the little park near my house, and ended up crashing head first into a telephone pole. And some time later that summer we were playing “golf” in the little course he made on the hill in back of his house and when Steve reared back to putt, hit him in the head again. Then there was the incident where Steve’s brother Mark crashed into him with his Radio Flyer and nailed him right in the shins. The thing about this kid is I don’t ever remember him shedding a tear. He’d just bite his lip and walk it off. It didn’t affect him though. Now he’s the president of a Fortune 500 company. Not really. Last I saw him he delivered newspapers for a living. But he seemed happy. Actually truth be told I’d much rather spend my days delivering the paper than being locked up in an office building. I guess you can play elevator races but what else fun is there to do there?
My mind was in a fog, and my skull ached as if one of those parasites from THE BRAIN EATERS had attached itself to me. I looked around and everything was flat as far as the eye could see. Strange black lines and blocks were everywhere on the ground. In the distance I could see what appeared to be two smallish mountains that were exactly rectangular in shape. I could not move and found myself rooted to the spot. There was weird writing at my feet that said New Vasaria Railroad $300 and the space ahead of me said Karloff Way $750. Suddenly I heard a loud rumbling and two enormous blocks tumbled off across the way. A loud voice yelled "AHA!" and a large hand reached down and moved something past me. It was a small pot metal figure that looked exactly like the little kid Ichiro from GODZILLA'S REVENGE. I looked down at myself and realized that I was a small metal figure too. Straining my eyes I looked to the side into what appeared to be an enormous drinking glass, and saw my reflection. I was a one inch tall statue of Dr. Roger Bentley as played by John Agar in the movie THE MOLE PEOPLE. I even had a tiny flashlight to keep the monstrous Mole People at bay. Little plastic haunted houses and castles were spread about everywhere, and I could see other metal figures. There was Shaggy from Scooby Doo, the Frankenstein Monster and the SS Rita.
One fine Bash Staffer, whose name was either Tom, Dick or Harry (I lean towards Tom) related an amusing story of his quest to find a copy of the Ed Wood movie SHOTGUN WEDDING. This ultimately involved sending a blank ten dollar money order to a shadowy address and then waiting for quite a long time. Weeks turned to months. Seasons changed. The Earth rotated and a few people bought HOWARD THE DUCK on VHS (well, me anyway) and finally a package arrived in a plain, brown wrapper. Inside sans note or any identification was a disk which had a surprisingly good copy of the movie on it. Said film has been described as comparable to being on vacation with Soupy Sales and Deputy Dog: you're glad you're on vacation but at the same time you can't wait for it to be over. Now I can only speak for myself, but I would gladly pay good money to see a one man play in several acts detailing the adventure to acquire this motion picture. And when I say good money I mean I would borrow it from someone and dutifully pay back a dollar a or two a month until the debt was satisfied in full. That's just how much I love the theater. 
And so after three days of wandering the halls, avoiding eating vegetables and wallowing in ghoulish entertainment, it all came to an end on Sunday afternoon. I hung around long enough to watch the hotel being transformed into just another building of mortar, stone and wood and observed people come in who had no idea that Cousin Itt had been recently roaming around in the lobby, and in the conference room, now being set up for something officious and boring, copies of SON OF GODZILLA were just a short while ago freely offered for sale to one and all. The end is always a little depressing, so I cheered myself up by stopping at a local retail establishment on the way home and purchasing all three boxes of the limited edition monster cereals: Frankenberry, Count Chocula and Booberry. It was necessary to purchase all three because this was the only way to get all the pieces required to build the haunted house on the back of the boxes. It was also necessary because, apparently, I'm ten years old. 
It was the last, gasping breath of another winter and I was sitting in my 1957 DeSoto Fireflite out in front of Big Sid's comic shop listening to an old cassette of "Chilling, Thrilling Sounds Of The Haunted House." The DeSoto was my winter car. Four studded snow tires from Finnish Rubber Works Ltd, in Helsinki and a bag of rock salt in the trunk and I was ready to chase a Yeti up a mountain highway. I also kept a Rat Fink bobble head on the dash for good luck in case I got in a drag race with the Greasers. Something that happened more often than you'd think.
Skulking around flea markets, garage sales and all other places where people set up tables to dispose of the accumulated miscellany of their lives is one of the greatest ways, that those of us fortunate enough to have not been born into an aristocratic lifestyle, can spend an afternoon. As I looked through the piles of old shoes and clothes, polaroid cameras, broken toys and mismatched sets of Elvis collectible TV trays which lay side-by-side with bowling trophies and fifty year old needlework of the Eiffel Tower, I thought of the poor slobs lounging around on yachts bored out of their skulls and pretending they were having a good time. As far as I was concerned, just about everything in the world worth having had been manufactured years ago and it was just of matter of looking in the right place to find it. 
The clouds hung in the firmament by unseen strings as I looked around warily, not wanting anyone to notice the focus of my attention. There were few rules in the wild west of flea markets, but one rock solid fundamental was that who so ever putteth their hands on an item hath the right of first refusal. That is, to buy it or not. A motley rabble milled around, each one a potential rival. My knees were wobbly and it took me a week to walk the fifteen feet to the rack that the jacket was sharing with a hounds tooth sports coat and a very tattered Pitcairn softball jersey that had the name "Fuzzy" stenciled on the back. Casually and nonchalantly I walked up to the rack and bent in close. The jacket smelled vaguely of mothballs and mushrooms.This was truly and without a doubt the very same coat worn by John Agar in THE MOLE PEOPLE, a movie I had seen at least a hundred times. How it got here, two thousand miles from Hollywood was a mystery, but stranger things have happened in this plane of existence. Who among us could explain the popularity of Soupy Sales or The Gong Show, or why Chrysler LeBarons sold like hotcakes at one time. Mysteries all. But however it got here, I had no doubt that this was the genuine article. Taking it off it's hanger I examined it closely. The price tag affixed said three dollars. How could this be? It was worth a fortune. Cradling it gently, I took it up to a guy sitting behind a card table picking his teeth with a GI Joe bayonet.
Victory is a intoxicating thing and can go to a man's head, but I stepped back and paused. I wondered if General Jackson had felt a little sorry for Pakenham after beating him at New Orleans. And surely when Haystacks Calhoun stood over a defeated Happy Humphrey at Madison Square Garden he felt a little remorse and probably even helped his beaten 800 pound rival back into his modified '51 Pontiac at the end of the evening. This man, this benighted soul who sat behind the stained, green Samsonite card table had been outmaneuvered in fair combat, and deserved the respect of a fallen foe. 
And so I saluted him, and gave my solemn promise that I would take good care of the jacket. It would be only hand washed, never in a machine, and I would never put it on a wire hanger. Only the finest teak wood hangers would do. And when that fateful day came, and I passed on to eternity, the jacket would be willed to someone who would cherish it as I did. As I walked away I felt something in the right jacket pocket. Reaching in, I pulled out a wadded up candy bar wrapper. Could this have been a candy bar eaten by the great John Agar? Carefully, so as not to damage it, I smoothed out the paper wrapping so I could read it. Zagnut. Reported to be John Agar's favorite. Irrefutable proof of the jacket's authenticity. And I will never believe otherwise.