Okay, peeps, here's yet another guest post, this time from the commenter formerly known as Dunsade Dave (now Dave S).
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American comics meant a lot to me as a kid in the mid '80s. Not only because of
the mind-boggling stories and dynamic art, but also because they were a window into
another world. I read literally every word of the US comics I fell in love with
– and I mean every word; adverts, letters pages, indicias, statements of
ownership, the lot.
To me, they were like travel agents' brochures
advertising a trip to the limits of imagination and the outer edges of sanity –
the heroes swung, soared and scrapped their way through vast cities full of towering skyscrapers and sinister alleys; villains struck poses, grimaced and ranted even
when they were on their own in their secret labs and hideouts. It was a far cry from the British comics I'd previously experienced – as much as I loved The
Leopard from Lime Street or The Visible Man, the stories always looked static to
me - they never had the vibrancy and energy of The Fantastic Four or The Mighty
Thor.
But that was only one of the worlds that comics let me peek into. They showed me another, almost as intriguing world too. One that flaunted itself
through attention-grabbing adverts for sweets called Snickers and StarBurst,
which sounded so much more alluring that dull British confectionery like
Marathon or Opal Fruits. They showed me a world where you could claim prizes
for selling copies of a paper called Grit – I would peer for ages at pages
festooned with minute drawings of microscopes, disguise kits, baseball hats and
digital watches, etc. Single-page comic strips promoting Twinkies & Hostess Fruit
Pies puzzled and beguiled me – foods so tasty that even the vilest baddie would
change their ways for a nibble. (I can't tell you how disappointed I was when I
finally tasted a Twinkie a few years ago - it was nice, but not quite so nice as to drive every evil impulse from my mind.)
Everything in those
comics amazed me – adverts for comics shops with lists of what surely must be every comic ever printed, cut-out-and-mail forms where the reader could send for
sea monkeys, false beards and unnecessarily large numbers of plastic soldiers. Even the letters page was a source of fascination - addresses had house
numbers in the 3000s. My brain boggled at how long the streets must be; I
imagined long rows of houses stretching toward a far-distant vanishing point
that not even The Flash could reach in a hurry. Names were no less fascinating. Growing up in Glasgow, the most exotic name I'd known was someone called Lloyd; now I was seeing names like Buscema, Giordano, Ditko, Salicrup, and they seemed like some kind of poetic secret words that opened the door to the magical realms they created.
The world seems a little smaller
these days, and less able to surprise and enchant me as often as it once did. Although I can still sometimes look back at those comic mags and feel exactly the way I did back then – excited, intrigued, bewitched – it usually only lasts for a mere second or two, before I'm flicked back into the present day. In that brief time
though, I feel elated - as if I'm at the beginning of a whole new existence, with new possibilities and an infinity of days ahead, and it always seems like I can hold on
to that feeling forever.
Thanks DS. Anyone else like to write a guest post? Then let me know in the communicative comments section.
