Hot Town, Cimmerian In The City (Part Two)

Concluding Conan's time-traveling misadventures from "What If" #13 (February, 1978).

First panel: Conan looks down at the dog and thinks "Hey, dinner!" Also? It's nice to see that even the most jaded, hardened Greenwich Village hipster isn't above wearing a tasteful string of pearls. Hey... wait a minute! Those are my gramma's! Stop! Thief!

Second panel: the mellow musical stylings of GROPE! Honestly, Roy Thomas and John Buscema (Ernie Chua, you're just the inker so I'll leave you out of it) -- "punk rock?" I think not. I'd buy "glam" but in no universe do these pretty boys and their frilly frocks qualify as "punk." And I doubt any punk rocker tried to intimidate a rival with a "double-hex whammy smile." Christ, Conan himself is more "punk" they are.



See?

Anyway, that's what happens when middle-aged folks try to depict a current musical fad, Madonna. Or to put it another way, Grope is the Marvel equivalent of Ernie Bushmiller (of the comic strip "Nancy") drawing any and all hippies with ukuleles and flower necklaces.

Whoa. Looks like the alley cat got to the dog before Conan did! (New York is rough.)



Too bad this story wasn't in-continuity, huh? 'Cause I really wanted to see Conan wearing that beret in, like, every story published after this one, forever. I wanted to see Arnold Schwarzenegger wearing a beret in the Conan movies. I wanted to read Conan novels that described the character as "black-haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, and a kicky little beret." Is that so much to ask?

I leave you with this piece of advice:



Never offer to help Conan move. He'll be stressed out and drunk and belligerent before you even get there, and to top it off he won't even spring for pizza afterwards. (Conan the Dickweed!)

Hot Town, Cimmerian In The City (Part One)

Wow! So, an entire cult has sprung up from the Milton Bradley game "Sorry!" (Salvation is completely random, depending on whether or not you land on a slide -- but any other cult member can bump you back... to hell!)

Naw! I'm kiddin'! Actually this is the guy from "What If" #13 (February, 1978) who put Conan the Barbarian into a huge bucket and lowered him into a time-well. Conan burst through the ropes that had bound him through sheer awesomeness, but wait! Before he could climb all the way out, the rope he was climbing broke (gotta control the awesomeness, dude) and he fell down, down, down... all the way to Greenwich Village in 1977.



Is it wrong that I covet that necklace on the gal in the lower center of this panel? I think I could seriously work something like that. Hmm... dig the pseudo-hippie at the lower far right. A ponytail and a headband? Is your hair really that out-of-control? Hell, why not add some barrettes, a hairnet, a snood, one of those monks' hats, a shower cap, a do-rag, and a couple of Ace bandages? Just really clamp that shit down. Either that or you could just get a haircut, you goddamn hippie!!! On the left side of the panel we have an alarmingly gray-haired hippie (in 1977?! Curse you, LSD!) sporting a perky flip-do that Laura Petrie would have killed for. And in the back, a curvacious -- if somewhat man-shouldered -- female street performer wearing a mesh t-shirt! You give that back to the Puerto Rican man you stole that from this instant, little missy! It's certainly one way to draw a crowd, I will admit. Although they may be somewhat confused about where to put their dollars. Also, if she lets that guitar drop a quarter-inch she's officially committing a felony.



"Hey, look! Some guy's doing the naked-but-for-a-loincloth bit." "Nice way to beat the heat, huh? Wish I could try it!" "But you could try it! I mean, you are a guy, right? 'Cause I really can't tell sometimes, but I was kinda leaning towards 'guy' on account of how flat your chest is and also that little mustache you got happening... Hey! Where are you going?!"

Apparently 1977 was the hey-day of the tank top. Why, everybody who was anybody wore 'em! Michael Douglas, Al Pacino, Burt Reynolds, Truman Capote, Jack Klugman, Red Buttons, Walter Mondale, Henry Kissinger... y'know. All the "sex symbols." Pretty much the only guy who isn't wearing one here is that snide economist in the plum-colored polyester. "With such happenings, it is small wonder the yen gains daily on the dollar!" Really, pal? That was the source of America's economic stagnation? Too many time-traveling fantasy barbarians? Huh. Come to think of it, I remember Jimmy Carter giving a speech on just that very thing. I think his solution was to give the time-traveling fantasy barbarians the Panama Canal.

You know what the worst part of this comic was? The continuous assertions of bystanders that Our Hero looks just like Sylvester Stallone. Yeah. You know what, Roy Thomas? That's not a compliment. I'd prefer to think he looks like Christian Bale or -- ooh! -- Jason Statham, but that's just my deal. And of course, your 1977-self wouldn't have the first notion about those two gentlemen. Hey, how 'bout Harrison Ford? He's tall, handsome, brooding, he's got the shelf-like forehead action goin' on... and unlike Stallone, he doesn't look hopelessly inbred.

Tomorrow: Conan vs. Glam Rock!