All Fall Down

People sure faint a lot in "The Invincible Iron Man." What is this, a Henry James novel? Should they all be clutching lace hankies as they crumple to the ground? Were they really exhausted or just overcome by a fit of "the vapors?" Will Nick Fury show up in a stovepipe hat and a waistcoat, carrying a bottle of smelling salts? No, for realsies. Well, at least a story with three different characters fainting in it (one of them twice!) is so ridiculous that Young Gerry Conway would never have the temerity to resort to anything even approaching it, ever, ever again.

Oh, wait...

Gah!

And it gets worse. A jagged edge explosion balloon, in pink, no less, explaining how Iron Man feels or maybe telling him how to feel? (More "ESP"! Is Marvel Girl just around the corner? Or in the dumpster?) And a "next issue" blurb that's a non-committal as Iron Man himself? I'm surprised anybody bought the next issue. Thank God for subscriptions, huh, Marvel?

Sweet Jeebus, this thing is a mess. Like I've said before, Old Gerry Conway is a fine television scriptwriter, but his early comics stuff just gives me a bellyache. But I think my feelings about "The Invincible Iron Man" #41 can best be said in a bit of dialog by Old Jerry Siegel:

Iron Man, the Musical

Poor Demitrius is just being crushed by all those dialog balloons. It's like a punishment from the Fanboy Bible (which I have just made up):

And he that blasphemeth the name of the BENDIS, he shall surely be put to death, and all the convention-goers shall surely balloon him. (Newsaramicus 24:16)

Oh, and the "millions of chords, struck and restruck," Demitrius? You're not having a freak-out; you're just overhearing the Philip Glass concert at Kennedy Center.

"Isn't it always?" God damn but Iron Man's a douche. I hate it when somebody pulls that "I'm pretending to be empathetic but I'm secretly saying I'm way better at handling stress than you are, you little pussy" crap. Ironically, I do that to Tusker all the time. Takes one to know one, I guess.

(And what's the deal with Marianne's knock-kneed stance? Does she have to pee?)

Hard, Moist, Throbbing Reality

Pop quiz, hotshots! Do you know what caused Iron Man to rally his strength just now?

1. He popped a nitro pill (washed down with a little Jim Beam).
2. Reserve batteries (two Energizer D-Cells) kicked in.
3. The vague proximity of Marianne has energized the notorious horndog like a can of spinach does for Popeye. And that familiar steam whistle "TOOT! TOOT!" noise is issuing from Tony's wang.
4. Skrull powers, activate! Yup, that (alleged) subplot's been brewing ever since "Tales of Suspense."
5. It's the fifth panel from the end and Young Gerry Conway realized he'd written himself into a corner, so screw it.

The correct answer is number five. Duh. And sadly, this still puts Young Gerry Conway ahead of Young Geoff Johns (circa "Stars and S.T.R.I.P.E.") and Middle-Aged Peter David (circa his later issues of "Young Justice"), both of whom would just let the remaining five pages or so of one story spill over into the following issue before herky-jerkily shifting into a completely different plot. Man, what I wouldn't give to be a comic book editor in your era. All you had to do was sit on your ass drinking coffee and scarfing down donuts, and occasionally make a cryptic announcement to "Newsarama" or order some hack to redraw a character's rack/junk a tad smaller. And you know me: I wouldn't even bother with that last part. In fact, my demands would be quite the reverse. *sighs wistfully*

Deus Ex Marianne

Oh, Marianne... is there anything you can't ruin?

In lieu of a background, Jim Mooney just inked in a portion of his thumbprint. Admittedly, he has big hands. And you know what that means, heh-heh...! Yup! Marfan syndrome. Rrrowr!

And look! Instead of the crabclaw tentacles, Demitrius has sprouted a miniature Slasher from his forehead! And the miniature mercenary is thin enough to fit through Demitrius's fingers! The skinny bitch.

NOBODY Expects the Shrewish Interruption!

"Drawn by the mental magnet that is the mind of Demitrius (and blitzed out of her mind on whiskey sours from the hotel bar) Marianne stumbles into the mouth of the alleyway..."

At least there's an outhouse directly in her path, in case she needs to throw up. Damn it, Tuska--! Or Mooney, maybe--! Anyway, I have an important reminder for whoever's responsible: not everything is made out of wood. Honest. Not even back in 1971. In fact, less things were made out of wood in 1971 than in any other year in the history of mankind. It was a glorious year for polypropylene, though...

And she might feel a tad better if she'd just peel that Facehugger off her kisser.

Are You Troubled by Restless Subplot Syndrome?

As if Iron Man already couldn't handle one emotionally unstable psychic whack-job, here comes Marianne! Oh, JOY.

Here's what would have made her part in this comic about a hundred times better: if Young Gerry Conway had dispensed with that scene of her having that knock-kneed brainfart at the Bates Motel or where-the-hell-ever and just had her run from the airport directly into that alley. He could have interspersed the boring "Danger! Budget Death Ray!" plot with panels showing Marianne sprinting alongside the airport shuttle bus, and then down the interstate, and through the suburbs, past famous attractions (maybe all the way up and down the stairs in the Washington Monument) until finally she arrives at the end of the comic. And the whole time she could just be having a fit, flailing her limbs and hollering, knocking stuff out of bystander's hands, Ron Burgundy-style, and generally making a nuisance of herself.

I mean, that's how I'd have written it.

Name the Source of that Irritating Racket! (AAAEE!)

• Slasher's eye-lasers
• Demitrius' poorly thought-out and grossly undefined mental powers
• Air escaping from Iron Man's armor while it melts
• Tony's self-pity, which has transcended mere words to manifest as an endless, ominpresent keening, like unto the banshee washer-women of lore. (Christ, now I'm writing like Conway. Somebody, slap me! No, belay that, you'd just screw it up. I'll slap me! ...YEOWW!)
• Marianne, all the way from her crappy hotel room
• The squealing tires of the sinister VW van, as Lucie runs their asses down and ends this stupid comic for once and for all.
• Whitepants the Brave, pining for more sweet, sweet armor-humpin'.
• Senator Stogie, ramming his "appropriations bill" through some page's "subcommittee."
• Me, as I realize I still have one-and-a-half pages left of this four-color turdburger to blog.

Let's Koo-Koo-operate!

The tensions that led to the epic Slasher/Demitrius battle have been brewing since page one, and yet the fight itself lasted a mere four panels. Suddenly, I long for decompressed storytelling! No, for realsies, 'cause I think these two ladies had it in them to go for at least a couple of issues, with maybe a Giant-Sized Special to wrap things up. And then there'd be nothing left of them but a smoldering crabclaw and a busted goggle lens.

But no. Young Gerry Conway had to get all Sesame Street on us and interrupt the titillating (and no, that's not a reference to Demitrius' forehead) carnage for a lesson in "cooperation." And so Slasher (the vivacious, orange-headed Ernie of the duo) and Demitrius (the morose, pigeon-dancing Burt) inexplicably set aside their animosity so they can finish beating on Iron Man.

But Iron Man is doing a dandy job of self-destructing, a-thank you very much, with the aid of an armor suit that's powered by a watch battery, apparently, and -- of course -- his inexplicably Peter Parker-like self-pity. (It's kinda hard to move that big chunk of machinery off your back when you're wearing it, huh, Iron Man?)

I'm OK - You're a Fool

A Practical Guide to Transformed Non-Man Analysis
by Doctor Thomas Anthony Demitrius, M.D.

Greetings, friends and/or fools!

This book is intended as an introduction to my theory of Transformed Non-Man Analysis, or "Transnonmanalysis" for short. At the core of my teachings is the principle that any philosophical position any of us takes in regard to our fellow men (including annoying loudmouth coworkers) can be boiled down to one of four basic ideas:

1. I'm a fool, you're okay: this position is generally wrong. Odds are, you're a lithe, emotionally beautiful genius who is being oppressed by some talkative jackass in a stupid aviator's helmet. You must await the change. Release the crabclaw tentacles within! Then smack the shit out of that bastard. ...If you are a talkative jackass in a stupid aviator's helmet, forget what I just said. You're a fool.
2. I'm a fool, you're a fool: this is better than the first position, but not by much. Take a closer look at your coworker. Sure, he's probably a fool. I bet he shows off with his fancy -shmancy laser beam eyeballs and Ginsu hands when a soldering iron/hot glue gun and a pen knife would have worked just as well, and without the unnecessary expenditure of energy. But are you really as bad as all that? Or has this jerk-off merely convinced you that you are? Think about it.
3. I'm okay, you're okay: what're you, kidding me? Wake up, dummy! You're better than okay! Who else can accomplish such glorious feats of surrealism? How about that bozo over there -- the one with the Dr. Mid-Nite goggles? Can he grow to two stories tall? I think not. Look at him. He thinks he's a criminal mastermind, but he takes orders from some doofus who talks to his cigarette, and when he was told to get some camouflage jumpsuits, all he could dig up was some mechanics' coveralls with grease stains on them. And he calls you a fool! You know you only took this lame gig so you could earn enough dough to move out of your mom's basement and maybe have a little extra left over to self-publish that book of poems you wrote that's going to change the world! You know that.
4. I'm okay, you're a fool: now we're talkin'! To quote an old Amerikanski song (I think), "buck up, Billy-boy!" Stage a bloody coup and kick your oppressor to the curb! (That's assuming you can even find a curb, since you seem to be trapped in a maze of blank walls. But still.)

Once you understand these four principles, you're well on your way to living a richer, more fulfilling life, away from the pointy metal claws and searing eyebeams of those who would oppose you.

And don't forget to check out my comrade Lucie's newest self-help book, "Smart Drivers, Stupid Passengers."

Portrait of the Author as a Young Crabclaw-Tentacled Terrorist

And here, Young Gerry Conway puts his personal artistic travails right on the comics page, raw and steaming, ripped from his tear-stained diary, with Demitrius and Slasher serving as mere finger puppets for his outrage. (Note: Finger Puppets of Outrage will be opening for my new band, Jagged Edge Explosion Balloon.)

In place of Conway's uncredited editor (or "uncreditor" if you prefer and I know you do) we have "the Slasher." (Get it? GET IT?) Slasher is an abusive control freak -- wait a minute--! I'm an abusive control freak! But I'm not nearly as bad as Slasher. Right, guys? Storm Boy, tell all this nice people I'm not as bad as Slasher. Do it! Don't make me smack you again. There, see? Storm Boy agrees with me. Aaaannnyway, Slasher calls Demitrius a "blathering fool" and tells him "I am the power in this team -- you're mere deadwood."

In place of Young Conway, we have "Demitrius", a put-upon, talkative, sensitive type with crazy shit literally coming out of his head. Demitrius is shaggier-looking than the Slasher and he loves to dance! Clearly he's a member of the younger generation... the Demitrius Generation.

I gather from this panel a power struggle had recently taken place within the Marvel Bullpen, with Young Conway gaining the upper hand over his nameless editor. Perhaps Conway had gone over the editor's goggled, leather-helmeted head and charmed the Marvel bigwigs -- maybe even Stan the Man himself! -- and he was at last free to fill the pages of Iron Man with as many over-written word balloons and thought bubbles as he wished! Stan would understand. ("Editors--!" Stan thought, his toupee quivering with contempt. "Bah! As long as the writers are emulating my mighty melodramatic manner, why should I need editors! Except maybe to write cover copy, and to mow my lawn on Sundays! Although none of them do it as well as Kirby did. The crazy li'l troll even edged my sidewalk! With scissors! And sure, he muttered to himself the whole time but when he finished for the day and I flipped that shiny new nickel at him you could see the gratitude in his eyes. And then I'd shout "DANCE!" and he'd do this mutant Charleston with a couple of Ann Miller tapdance spins thrown in, until he'd grab his chest and collapse into the begonias. And as they loaded him into the ambulance we'd just laugh and laugh--! By the hammer of Thor, I wish I had Kirby back! It's like when you're almost done with a tube of toothpaste and suddenly it's gone and it turns out the wife threw it out... you miss it, because you wanted to squeeze out whatever was still left inside! ...Good ol' Kirby...!")

Honey Do

Dimitrius?

Sweetums?

Could you be a dear and pick up my dry cleaning while you're on that side of town? And there's this sandwich place right next door -- they make the best turkey on sourdough with provolone and guacamole -- grab me one of those, if you could... I can't pay you right now, so you'll just have to put it on my "tab", heh-heh! Oh! And there's a news stand just down the street, get me a copy of The Sporting News and an InStyle and maybe a Cottage Living if they have it, and if they don't, could you ask them why not, because it's a really great magazine and I just know I'm not the only one who enjoys their home decorating articles, and also, swing by that coffee place across the street from the news stand and buy me large toffee-soymilk frappuccino, only not in the plastic cup because you know how concerned I am about the environment.

Okay?

Payback's a Vaguely European, Crabclaw-Tentacled Bitch

The Golden Age simplicity of George Tuska's layouts is simultaneously annoying and charming. In this panel, for instance, Gerry Conway's word-a-day antagonists are scuffling in an abstract arrangement of plain brick walls atop a smooth, continuous plane. In other words, they've been somehow transported into the 1992 PC shooter, "Wolfenstein 3D." Blech. Well, at least they all have shadows now.

Demitirius missed a golden opportunity by not pimp-slapping Slasher with one of his crabclaws. That would've been sweet. "Talk to my crabclaw hand, 'cause the boobs on my forehead don't understand!" But no. And it's that sort of mediocrity that kept Demitrius out of the big leagues. They're all laughing at you, Demitrius. All the super-villain freaks are laughing at you. Even Arnim Zola! Even the Headmen!

Regrets, He's Had a Few

So... what size bra do you think Demitrius' forehead wears? Granted, the bra would have tantalizing cut-outs for his "golden pincers of pure power." ...GAH! Dang it, George Tuska, did you bother to read Young Gerry Conway's script at all? Uncredited colorist, you're also due for a savage knuckle-rapping. Get in line behind Young Conway and Tuska. Jim Mooney, because I like you so much, you get to watch! No, thank you. (...Storm Boy wants to know who I'm talking to. SILENCE, FOOL!!!)

And I have to ask... does Iron Man even need a villain at this point? Because he's already paralyzed by his own whining.

Really, Really Remote Control

"...yOu wiLL NoT wAtcH thE tYRa BaNKs shoW wHILe yOu ArE on tHE iNtERCoM wITh mE, miStER KLinE...!" *CLICK!*

Okay, so this operation's mastermind -- hey! Is it Mastermind? ...Sorry, I don't know why I'm even getting worked up about this dumb story. Stockholm Syndrome, maybe? Or maybe I just like puzzles. Anyway, the bad guy whose voice sounds like warbled green smoke, apparently, has now implied to Mister Kline that if he knew the "overplan" (Gah! Freakin' Young Gerry Conway!) he might not be so cooperative. I know he's evil and all, but it seems like he's not a very effective manager. I'm pretty sure this kind of thing doesn't go on at FedEx, is what I'm saying. ("So what's in that human-sized crate you want me to move?" "You don't wanna know.")

He Loves Only "Old Gold"

Another shocking twist! Or a shocking twist, anyhow... it turns out the criminal mastermind who controls Mister Kline's every move is... his cigarette! ("Your next assignment: go to the corner drugstore and pick up a pack of me!") Now the comic can end with Iron Man grinding the villain into an ashtray. And in the 90's, the arch-fiend can be resurrected as a piece of nicotine gum.

That hideous, lined face on the TV screen? Never mind that now. Mister Kline was just watching one of his soaps, from back in the days when they employed people over the age of forty.

Well, THERE'S That Uncluttered Desk--!

Although it still looks a little messy to me... hang on. *sweeps back of hairy arm into telephone, knocking it onto floor* There. Now it's perfect. *sighs contentedly*

What, me have issues?

Anyway, not only can we finally see the top of that desk, but the whole room no longer has the spooky "Night Gallery" lighting going on... now that the Abominable Mister Kline is no longer in it! Nope, Mister Kline is like a Bizarro version of my dad, making sure that any time somebody leaves a room that they turn the lights on. ("Me am made of money, you don't know!") Because if there's anything that impresses people more than handling the delay causation of a personage, it's making sure that nobody can ever see your face, or your delicate, bird-like... ankles... holy shit.

I just figured out who Mister Kline really is! (And what he does in his "off hours", heh-heh...)

Spectrevision

Who needs televangelists when you can just speak directly to the Lord himself via whatever gizmo Mister Kline has? ("Are you there, Kline? It's Me, God!") Just try not to piss Him off.

Mister Kline: ...and before I sign off for today, could You maybe do something about this thing on my foot? *hoists foot onto uncluttered desk, pulls off shoe and sock*

God: Suppose you tell Me what I'm supposed to be looking at, exactly--?

Mr. Kline: That white spot... I think it's a Plantar's wart?

God: So? Go down to the corner drugstore and pick up some of that remover.

Mr. Kline: Well... I mean, You're right here, couldn't You just heal it for me?

God: Ugh. Stop wasting My time. I was going to give you a chance to repent for all the terrorism business, but you know what? This is the last straw. You're going straight to hell.

Mr. Kline *panicked*: But, I--!

God: Peace out!

[The shimmering image evaporates, leaving Mr. Kline in total darkness.]

Jagged Edge Explosion Balloon!

After those one-and-a-half pages of rousing action, we're gonna take a breather while Mister Kline tries to set the alarm on his clock radio.

Listen... I wanna get "real" with you now. Can we "rap"? We can? Good. Thank you.

Over the course of gouging a ragged, bloody hole in this comic's neck and shitting down its windpipe examining this comic, I've grown to enjoy the figurework of George Tuska. His looming, lumbering characters have a warmth somehow lacking in the work of the similarly-styled Don Heck. (Heck's characters tend to have odd, leering, Pan-like faces that make them look like they've endured some seriously botched rounds of plastic surgery.) Sure, Tuska's characters tend more toward the "beetle-browed and oafish" end of the spectrum, but here it's softened by the exquisite inking of Jim Mooney. I just wish that Tuska's backgrounds just once would have had anything at all to do with his figurework. Take this panel. It's as dramatic as any "turning that one knob" panel could every hope to be, and Mr. Kline's immaculately-manicured hand is rendered beautifully. And yet the background is practically a collage. What is all that crap piled up back there? I see a picture frame (not sure there's anything in it), a scrap of wicker, a windowsill air conditioner, a two-by-four... just where th' heck is he? May I expect Fred Sanford to wander in at any moment? ("Kline, you dummy--!") And are all those hundreds of lines radiating from that magenta lightbulb or blister or everlasting gobstopper or what-have-you meant to indicate that it's glowing or just really anxious? (Performance anxiety!)

Oh, and mister letterer guy? Artie? I'm pretty sure a caption about a guy turning a knob doesn't merit the Jagged Edge Explosion Balloon. (My new rock band!) I'm just sayin'.

And Now, the Crustacean You've All Been Waiting For

Y'know, I was going to break this sequence down into individual panels, but as you can see, George Tuska (pencils) and Artie Simek (lettering) made it damn near impossible. So screw it. And heck, it is the book's climax, and as I used to say to my dates, "I might as well show it to you in all its uncut glory."

• The very idea of Demitrius lends itself well to the kind of surreal, almost dadaist fun that superhero comics can do so well. Unfortunately, it's all weighted down by mounds of soggy, pretentious "Marvel Method" prose. Blech.
• "Creature"? "Transformed non-man"? Sure, a guy sprouts a couple of cranial lobster arms and suddenly he's a monster. Would you have used those words if you'd written the comic where Abra Kadabra turned the Flash into a marionette, Young Gerry Conway? I should think not. Young Gerry Conway is unfair to mutated proto-Serbs!
• [Setting: the interior of a brownstone in Hackensack. The Del Pieros, a retired couple, are having coffee in their dining room when someone rings the doorbell.]
  
  Mrs. Del Piero: I'll get it, honey. [She opens the door and sees a twenty-foot-tall man in green coveralls, with lobster-clawed arms protruding from his skull.] Yes...? Oh! You must be the new delivery guy my neighbor Mrs. Totti mentioned... Demitrius, is it?"
  
  UPS guy: Yea... I am Demitrius -- and I bring DEATH! [He presents her with a small cardboard box.]
  
  Mrs. Del Piero: Death? For me? But I didn't send away for any death.
  
  [Demitrius is busy punching buttons on his electronic clipboard, but acknowledges her with a shrug.]
  
  Mrs. Del Piero [calling to husband]: Honey? Did you order my death?
  
  Mr. Del Piero [raises coffee mug cheerfully]: Not today, honey! But don't tempt me!
  
  [They both chuckle at this.]
  
  Demitrius [presents her with the clipboard and his stylus]: Just sign here, and here, and here.
  
  Mrs. Del Piero [hesitates]: I don't know if I'm-- I mean, could I send this back? If it's no trouble? It's just that I not ready for death.
  
  Mr. Del Piero: Who's it from?
  
  Mrs. Del Piero: Hang on, I'm talking to the delivery guy!
  
  Mr. Del Piero [louder]: What...? Who's it from? Who sent it to you?
  
  Mrs. Del Piero [frustrated]: How should I know?!
  
  Mr. Del Piero: Well, it's got a shipping label, don't it?
  
  Mrs. Del Piero: Oh, for--! Fine! [she examines the box] Oh! It's from my sister!
  
  Mr. Del Piero: WHAT...?!!
  
  Mrs. Del Piero [hollers]: IT'S FROM MY SISTER! [to herself] I suppose I can't send this back to her...
  
  [She reluctantly signs the form, and Demitrius departs. She carries the little box into the dining room and sits back down with her husband.]
  
  Mr. Del Piero: Well? Aren't you gonna open it?
  
  Mrs. Del Piero: Oh, I'd rather not. I guess I'll just put it away somewhere.
  
  Mr. Del Piero: Like where?
  
  Mrs. Del Piero: I thought maybe in the -- [catches herself, smiles, and wags her finger at him] Oh! You're a very naughty boy!
  
  Mr. Del Piero: Almost got you! [grins, takes a sip of coffee] So what are you gonna tell your sister when she calls and asks how you like your death?
  
  Mrs. Del Piero: I'll just lie and tell her it's wonderful.
  
  Mr. Del Piero: Ah, so it'll be just like our wedding night! [then, wistfully] ...Y'know, I probably will kill you someday.
  
  Mrs. Del Piero: Get in line, darling.
  
  [They both laugh.]
  
  [Fade out.]
• Reading the captions, I have to wonder if Young Gerry Conway ever intended for Demitrius to be drawn with lobster-clawed cranial appendages in the first goddamn place. He talks about fire and lightning bursting from Demitrius's brain and grabbing Iron Man, not some kooky monster arms. I'm guessing he had pictured some kinda Kirby-kracklin' energy spewing out from a bloated noggin and not the Golden Age-styled nonsense Tuska wound up drawing. The sad part is, the story's better for Tuska's "mistake."
• Demitrius to Slasher: "And that is why you are the tool--!" Preach it, brother!
• "Mister Kline!" Ugh. Once again, this limpest of villain names ruins a perfectly good melodramatic pronouncement. It would have been exponentially cooler if Demitrius had said "Doctor Doom!" or "Kang the Conqueror!" or hell, even "Zarrko the Tomorrow Man!" Anything but "Mister Kline!"
• George Tuska's groundhog-like fear of delineating shadows makes it easy to pretend that in that largest panel, Demitrius hasn't quadrupled in size after all, but has merely leapfrogged over Iron Man, into the foreground. And as we all know, Demitrius is fond of leaping.
• Are your appetites whetted for a balls-out battle between Iron Man and Demitrius? They are? Well, too damn bad, because Young Gerry Conway thought the next panels would be best put to use looking in on Mr. Kline and his "uncluttered desk." Heh.

L'il Gerry Conway and the Eastside Boyz

Why yes, it is "KRUNK", isn't it?

Slasher really isn't into the whole "banter" thing. Mainly because it takes time away from his soliloquizing. (This just in: sources report that Slasher was wedded to the sound of his own voice this past weekend, in a grim Socialist ceremony in the crater of a smoking volcano.) Check it: in the second panel, Iron Man turns Slasher's attempted filibustering into a charming bit of overlapping dialog that wouldn't sound out-of-place in "The Philadelphia Story." Take that, "Fingers"!