DC Comics Ghosts: Number 78, July 1979

By Craig: Ok, I am on a roll. There are times when I feel like writing, and there are other times when I do not feel like writing. Lately I have felt like writing. The other day I was having a discussion with my brother Jay and he told me that he was reading the works of Gaston Leroux. I had never read anything by Leroux, and was familiar with only one of his stories. Leroux was best known for his book The Phantom of the Opera which was made into a movie staring Lon Chaney back in the 1920s. In fact, I probably knew who Lon Chaney was before I had ever heard of Gaston Leroux...and it is probable that even today I would not associate Leroux with The Phantom of the Opera had it not been for a comic book that I read when I was 10 years old.

In the summer of 1979 my brother and I were full throttle in the comic book craze. We were 10 years old and would spend hours reading the same stories over and over again. Unlike most kids we were a little different. We were not really into the superhero comics as much as our friends were. For sure, we had issues of the Fantastic Four, Spiderman, and Batman, but our preference was outside of the superhero genre. Even back in those days TIME and the HISTORICAL PAST were motifs that seemed to occupy a lot of my waking moments. They were abstract ideas that my youthful mind tried to process. I was fascinated by tales and legends of yore...events that occurred in the remote past...a time far removed from my own. At some point my brother and I became interested in ghosts. I don't recall the exact moment when or why but I can only surmise that it was the natural progression of my mind attempting to come to terms with the concept of DEATH. Death had only just recently become a companion to our  consciousness when our grandfather had passed away the winter before. What was Death? What were Ghosts? Eureka! There is an end! One day I will die! That is impossible...Death only happens to other people! One of our favorite comic book at this time was the DC Comics title GHOSTS.

 

The cover of issue # 78 was enough for you to want to turn the pages and read on! 3 GHASTLY GHOST TALES including "THE WORLD'S MOST FAMOUS PHANTOM" The story starts out like most classic ghostly tales. A weary traveler...At night....A nasty rain storm...An old abandoned church in the middle of nowhere! Young Gaston Leroux finds shelter and the unexpected hospitality of a strange organist who keeps his head covered with a red cloth. When the young gentleman's curiosity overtakes his reason he quickly removes the cloth from his hosts head and reveals a monstrous looking face. Leroux flees from the old church with his pissed off host in pursuit. When he finds his way back to the village he meets a few of the locals who explain to him that the man he met in the church was in actuality a phantom of a man that had been burned alive in the church centuries before. Supposedly, Leroux uses this encounter as the basis of his story The Phantom of the Opera.

I was not even sure that I still possessed the issue of GHOSTS # 78 until I started thumbing through some of our old comic books which are stored in a big plastic box. True comic book collectors would be appalled by the way that my brother and I treated our comic books. We wrote our names in them and took absolutely no precautions to preserve the condition. Most of them are in fair condition...well read, and well loved. After all, what are they meant for? Are they meant to be placed in sealed plastic sleeves with a cardboard back? When I found GHOSTS # 78 I noticed that it had stood the test of time surprisingly well. I gave it to my brother the other day for him to enjoy once again. In fact, it traveled with us 800 miles to Miami when I decided to accompany Jay for his most recent appointment with his oncologist who is treating him for his cancer. GHOSTS...the ghosts of time that are my constant companions. I have now accepted that there will be a finality to my existence...A time when I will no longer be... Eventually we will all be ghosts...phantoms of something that once was.

A Certain Encounter: Sin City

By Craig: It had been nearly a quarter of a century since I had last stepped foot in Sin City. With its dazzling lights and loose reputation, Las Vegas Nevada is the place where one goes when one wishes to be ones self. Street performers are ubiquitous and range from Elvis and Marilyn Monroe impersonators to painted human statues. They work for donations and a dollar or two might get you a photograph with them. The city comes to life at night just before dusk. Amid all of the glitz and glamour of the casinos and opulent hotels there is, of course, the people of the abyss which lurk within the shadows of all this luxury and wealth. I was in Las Vegas on business and one afternoon I decided that I needed to go for a run since I realized that it had been four days since my last run through the streets of Sedona Arizona. That had been a nice, pleasant, scenic morning run along the streets and trails of that resort town, but running through the streets of Sin City at 1400 hours in mid July was anything but pleasant. In fact, it was almost suicidal.

There was a light breeze blowing, but it gave very little comfort when the temperature was hovering at about 110 degrees. I decided that I really could have done without the breeze, because it was like having an oven blowing in your face. I had big ambitions before I started to run...7 miles...I would do 7 miles...slow of course, because of the heat, but I was in awesome shape. After all, I had just qualified for the Boston Marathon. Or so I thought....

Me: Hey body? What's up?

Body: What are you trying to do kill me?

Me: No. Absolutely not! I'm trying to help you become physically fit?

Body: Well hey...I have a bright idea you moron...Try finding a cool place and a cold drink and quit thinking for a while!!!

Me: I was just trying to help?

Body: You can help by going into that store and getting me a nice tall Gatorade...I mean...what kind of an idiot would go for a run in the desert when it is 110 degrees?

Me: Are you calling me an idiot?

Body: Hey! Idiot! The Gatorade please! Now!!

I ducked inside of a convenience store and looked at my GPS watch. 3.14 miles...Ok...that was good...I ran pi! I always run with a few dollars tucked into my shorts pocket and I'm glad that I did on this day for I bought the largest bottle of ice cold glacier Gatorade that they had. Enough of the manly heroics. I was done running on this day! I left the store and hobbled back out into the oppressive heat. I could see the hotel a few blocks away and was heading in that direction when I stumbled into Methuselah.

He at first appeared to be quite ancient...hence the nickname...but after speaking with him, and observing him a little bit more carefully I concluded that the man was probably not that much older than my nearly 46 years. His rough years of hard alcohol soaked living and probable drug use, along with his grey matted beard, and leathery sun beaten skin had muddled my initial perception of him. He was extremely thin with attenuated limbs and a cadaverous looking face with a red bulbous nose common to people afflicted with alcohol abuse. If he kept on this path...I guessed...it wouldn't be long before he passed into the eternal abyss. He peered at me suspiciously through a set of beady eyes. He had been laying down on the sidewalk and when I rounded the corner I had almost stepped on him. At first I thought that he might have been dead, but he had sat up on his elbows when I stopped to ask if he was ok. He told me that he was tired. I, in turn, told him that this was no time of the day to be outside sweltering in the hot desert sun. Although, he had found a shady spot under a buildings overhang. We talked for quite some time and I found out that this wreck of a man was no ignoramus. He talked with a keen sense of intelligence and possessed a vocabulary that had to have come from a man of some education. I wondered what had brought him to his present condition, but it was none of my business so I did not ask. He, however, seemed surprised that I was sitting on the sidewalk talking to him. I asked him where he was from originally, because nobody it seems is a native of Las Vegas. He then told me that he was Canadian and had come to the United States when he was in his early teens with his parents who had since passed away. He had worked as a consultant of some kind for a number of years and had married, but his wife had died of cancer a few years ago. Ironically, he claimed that he too, now had cancer, and that his health insurance quit paying for his treatments. He had lost his house, his job, and now "here I am!" He said.  He had no children...and now, no family. Every now and then he would laugh...a laugh that seemed to mock his very existence. So I was wrong about him! He was no depraved alcoholic...At least he wasn't if he was being truthful. His condition was the result of an unfortunate and unlucky set of circumstances. He had simply drawn a bad lot...The short straw...The Joker in the deck!

I asked him why he didn't go back to Canada where he was a citizen because they had a national health care plan that took care of its citizens. He told me that he was no longer a Canadian citizen...that he had applied for Medicaid but that he did not qualify because his household income was too high. He had explained to them that he had lost his job, but they had turned a blind eye.
"Good God Fearing Christians!" He had said with some drama. "I came here to Vegas, because Vegas has the friendliest people on the planet" He told me.
I was skeptical of his claims, but who was I to question him? I had only been in Vegas for three or four days. He had been here close to a year.
"God Fearing Christians!!" he muttered again. I wished him luck and gave him the remainder of the money I had in my pocket (which wasn't much) and as I took my leave of him I could still hear his mocking laugh. Ah HEE...HEE...HEE...HEE!!!

A Certain Encounter: Moschops (1961 NU)

By Craig: It was a thickset lumbering beast nearly twelve feet long with a robust calf-like face. In a way it reminded me of a gigantic toad, but its skin was not warty or covered with scales, rather it was smooth, like the skin of an amphibious lizard. It was a docile creature that had the ambling gait of a tortoise, but could move surprisingly fast when the need arose. It was content to munch on the ferns and lycopods that dominated the eco-system of the upper Permian. It was the Moschops!

The Moschops was not really a dinosaur per-se, because it lived in the geological time period before the dinosaurs appeared. It was, however, still considered among many to be a precursor to those intimidating giants who dominated the landscape of the later Mesozoic. It seemed to thrive well in the region now known as South Africa where it's fossilized remains have been found and were first identified at the beginning of the 20th century by the Scottish Geologist Robert Broom.

I first became acquainted with Mr. Moschops when I was five years old. My brother and I received a Marx dinosaur play set for Christmas. Among the many dinosaurs in the set was a squatty white Moschops. I don't know why, but for some reason it quickly became one of my favorite models in the set. Perhaps it had something to do with the resemblance to the toads that I frequently saw hopping along in my grandfather's garden. A few years later I had another encounter with Moschops. This time my brother and I found a Moschops trading card that was part of a set of 80 cards depicting various prehistoric creatures issued by NU-Cards in 1961. It was a blue bordered card with a black and white image in the center which featured a family of Moschops'. The image is taken from a painting by the late Czech artist Zdenek Burian.  I look at that card now these many years later and turn it over to read the short caption on the back.

                 "A Family of MOCHOPS look pretty to each other-but to no one else."

I suddenly find myself transported to the South African plains of the Permian period some 260 million years ago. I am standing in front of the black and white family of Burian's Moschops. At first everything is still, but gradually the black and white scene changes into colour and I am soon looking toward the eastern sky and notice the bright Permian Sun shining its magnificence upon an earlier time. It is a beautiful sunny, yellow, morning on the plains of Karoo, but my breathing is heavy due to the different Nitrogen/Oxygen ratio of our planet in this remote geological period of time.

"I'll not be running a marathon today!" I exclaimed.  It was directed at no one in particular, and since there are no humans around, it would seem that the Moschops closest to me was the receiver of my declaration.

"Excuse me? What did you say?" It asked.

I took a deep breath and smiled. "Well Mr. Moschops since I am from a time in the future, far distant to your own, my lungs need to adapt to the atmosphere of your time."

"Well, bloody bad luck for you matey! I can breathe just fine." He replied.

"Well good for you Mr. Chops! It will take millions of years for my lungs to evolve if I have to stay in your time, and I m afraid that my lifetime is not that long....matey!"

He laughed. His huge teeth jutting out from his brown mouth.
"Aw come on now, the Permian isn't such a bad time to live." He said.  "Just look around you matey...Do you see any of the pollution and corruption that encompasses the Earth in your time?" Where are all the smokestacks and automobiles with their noxious fumes? Where are all the criminals running around with their guns shooting at people in schools and restaurants? There are no wars here, no weapons of mass destruction, nobody thinking that their religion is superior to someone else's. No greedy capitalists, communists, socialists, jingoists, monarchists, feudalists, anarchists, or any other ISTS that I can think of. There are no conservatives, liberals, democrats, republicans, Whigs, Tories, senators, kings, queens, dictators, premieres, presidents, secretaries, prime ministers or any other egotistical title that is eagerly sought in your time. Why? Because there are no humans! Those arrogant smelly perverted creatures don't exist!
No sir, there is only the flowing water of that stream, and the distant sun to warm us. We have plenty of food and want for nothing here in the Permian."

I shrugged. "I guess you summed up life in my times Mr. Moschops. So...well...what would you recommend that I do? Should I hike to the summit of that volcano in the distance and hurl myself into the cauldron?"

Mr. Moschops  chuckled. "I certainly wouldn't recommend that! It would be just a bit too dramatic wouldn't you say?"

I glanced behind Mr. Moschops to see two of his family members taking a drink from the stream. I began to reflect on the words that had just been spoken by my new found friend. Everything seemed peaceful here. No bills to pay, no deadlines to meet, no dealing with the hustle and bustle of competitive corporate America with all of its primitive bullshit ideologies and dogma. Sure, there were some small carnivores running around that might try to bite my head off, but nothing that I could not handle...At least there were no huge T-Rex's or Allosaurs to  contend with. As far as food? Why could I not learn to diet on the lycopods like the Moschops? I could even supplement my diet with some Permian fish! The atmosphere? Well...I would just have to evolve faster! I think that this here was a time after my own liking. I was about to inform Mr. Moschops that he had just convinced me to take up permanent residence when suddenly the scene began to change and the Moschops family shifted to their Burian positions. I found myself holding the card in my hand and immediately became aware of a siren in the distance, blaring it's all too familiar noisy music...

Sinclair the Striker

Sinclair the Striker by Jay

One of the greatest cricketers from South Africa during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century was Jimmy Sinclair.  Tall and naturally athletic, Sinclair was a powerful batsman.  He is often given credit for hitting the first test century ever for South Africa and is known for whacking some of the most powerful sixes ever witnessed.  Indeed, it is possible he hit the longest six in cricket history when he belted one out of the Old Wanderers cricket ground where it landed on an outgoing train!  He also became the first South African to make over 300 (301) in 1897 for G. Beve’s XI against Roodeport.  Sinclair wasn’t just a good batsman however, he was also a notable bowler – an all-rounder, who could be phenomenal on the right day.  As a teenager he had trounced Lord Hawke’s English team practically all by himself, scoring 157 points and taking all the wickets.  He was definitely the man to watch whenever the English or the Australians had to face South Africa.  In the first decade of the twentieth century, he would be joined by more talent on the South African team including Aubrey Faulkner and C.B. Llewellyn, and this would set the stage for some of the great matchups between these countries.  In 1910, the South Africans, with Sinclair leading the way, toured Australia for the first time.  Sinclair can actually be seen in some very rare footage from one of the tests on this tour.  The clip is very clear for its age.  It is a sunny day, and Sinclair is bowling against Warren Bardsley.  The non-striker is the legendary Australian batsmen, Victor Trumper.   Bardsley hits the ball and begins to run.  Trumper then runs past Sinclair in a mad dash to get to the other end of the pitch but is thrown out by one of the players who is out of frame (probably Llewellyn).  Ignominiously, Trumper falls as he is extending his bat and is then seen rising quickly to his feet where he seems to hitch up his pants before calmly turning around and walking off the field.  In the meantime, Sinclair is seen striding forward, perfectly composed and commending his fellow teammates by clapping, obviously pleased in this great moment of triumph by ridding themselves of Australia’s biggest threat.  It is unfortunate that this is the only known footage of Trumper in action (though some posed footage of him does exist).  However, here we see Sinclair, South Africa’s answer to Trumper, glorying in the moment, forever immortalized on this bright summer day so long ago in December, 1910.  It is interesting to note that when this footage was shot, Sinclair was past his prime though he still from time to time exhibited some of the form that had made him such a feared presence a decade before.   

Below are two pictures of Sinclair.  One is from my collection of tobacco cards, which dates from the same year as the Australian tour (1910).  The other is taken from Roland Bowen’s informative book on the history of cricket called Cricket: A History of its Growth and Development throughout the World.  I believe this picture is really representative of the man and his performance on the field.  In a way, it almost seems contemporary though it is well over 100 years old.  Sinclair looks formidable and intimidating  as he holds his bat high and leans over on his toes, almost as if he is about to topple onto the crease.  There is no question that he is not just protecting the wicket, but is fiercely determined to launch one of his thunderous sixes deep into the cosmos.  It is a picture full of undisciplined energy and raw strength.  Sinclair the striker is life captured at the pinnacle of one’s power.  It is brief, and it is momentary; however, for an instant, the scene captures an ephemeral glimpse of something immortal that transcends this single act of a man.  Sinclair stands out from everything else around him - the subdued, hazy background of buildings, phantom-like in appearance and seeming to want to melt into an obscure and forgotten past – the lone wicket, a three pronged fork planted in the ground as stark as the cricketer himself and yet remote, lonely and isolated within the scene - people in the dimness, but whose images are so deeply blurred that they may as well be  antique shingles or posts rather than breathing, thinking things that were once living and loved by relatives long dead.  The most startling image in the picture however, is Sinclair’s shadow.  As he leans over and prepares to wallop the ball out of the grounds, it almost seems to be rising up to consume him.  It is a grim irony indeed, that Sinclair would die young at the age of 36 on February 23, 1913.   And yet…  the picture defies this end of a man.  He seems to be struggling to burst forth from the diminishing scene, from the blurs and shadows of mortality and into something that strikes into the very core of the sun itself.

 

The Glass Temple of Worcester

By Craig: What was it? Was it a monster? A giant monolith emerging from the bowels of the earth? It had massive mechanical arms that moved and lifted cars and people up with very little effort, swallowing them whole! It appeared to be made out of glass, and was getting taller with every single day...until eventually...it was the tallest thing on the horizon.

I was around four or five years old when these juvenile thoughts floated through my immature brain. I was processing information the best way that a five year old could. Of course it was only a fiction...a distortion of facts...an erroneous translation due to a five year olds limited knowledge and experience of the natural world. In reality the glass monster that appeared to be rising like a phoenix from the earths mantle and wreaking terrible destruction and mayhem on the unfortunate inhabitants in the distance was none other than the construction of the Worcester County National bank in downtown Worcester Massachusetts. (How's that for a long sentence?) This was in 1972...or perhaps 1973. The glass tower is now known as Worcester Plaza. The giant moving arms were cranes. The I-beams and other mechanical things being lifted were interpreted by my five year old mind to be cars and people. It didn't matter to me then. I wanted no part of that horror that was occurring on the horizon!

At the time that this glass skyscraper was being constructed I was living with my parents and twin brother in my grandfathers triple decker on Queen St. across from the now defunct City hospital where I had been born. I recall sitting on the back porch attempting to make sense of the gargantuan world beyond the safe confines of my grandfathers house. I sensed danger beyond the porch. Out in the street cars flew by, honking their horns while sirens blew from ambulances on a regular basis, coming and going from the place of sickness and death. I sensed brutality...chaos...mayhem. This was the violent world to which I had been born. This was the world in which I would have to survive. My notions of this world haven't changed much in the forty or so years since I first developed them. Only my courage to face this busy and convoluted environment has improved, and this, of course developed over time.

I now realize and understand with a sort of reluctance that this is the way of the universe...our universe. It is hostile, and violent at the core. It starts with the primordial elements and works its way up. One only has to look a hydrogen atom within the confines of our own sun to see the constant struggle of nature. Hydrogen atoms bombarding each other, fusing together in an explosive state to form helium atoms. If this is how the universe is constructed than why should we as humans be any different? We are born into this violent cataclysm! It is our condition in the state of normalcy. The universe is not a peaceful place. Why does a baby cry when it is removed from its mothers womb? Why does it not smile? or even laugh? Does it unconsciously sense the barbarous environment in which it has been cast? Every moment there is a struggle of the elements around you. Even as I write this within the relatively safe confines of my house, while sipping on a refreshing cup of hot coffee, I sense danger. It is in the wind...the sky...the distant sound of booming thunder...a gunshot...the fat toad in its aquarium is on edge...feeling safe under its plastic igloo. As for myself?...I am ready to turn in for the night...locking the doors and making sure that my fighting stick and bayonet are within reaching distance from my bed...I might just as well be on the back porch in Worcester...forty years and 900 miles away sitting on my long dead grandfather's lap listening to his dreams, and watching a giant monster with mechanical arms warn me of the future...I see it still...

John Cabot & The Voyage Of The Matthew

By Craig: These days we live in a world where there is no frontier. Humans have been to the Poles. They have conquered the greatest Himalayan summits and have even been to the bottom of the Mariana Trench. Indeed, if one looks for a frontier in the year 2013 one must look to the stars. I have often wondered what the explorers of ancient times felt as they sailed into the unknown. There was St. Brendan, an Irish monk who might have sailed to the Americas in an open boat as early as the 6th century and saw many wondrous and mysterious things including a giant silver pillar which may have been an iceberg. There was Leif Ericson the Scandinavian explorer who found a place described as "Vinland" in the 11th century. Then there was Abubakari II of the African kingdom of Mali who  sailed with a great fleet of ships into the unknown in the early 14th century. What were these great explorers thinking as they sailed off into uncharted waters? One of these explorers who is often forgotten today was an Italian navigator who sailed for England in the late 15th century.

Not much is known of the life of John Cabot. He was probably born in Genoa sometime around 1450. At some point Cabot received an education and learned the maritime trade. He was a skilled pilot who traveled extensively in the Mediterranean and traded with the Arab merchants for spices which were eagerly sought in Europe and brought in a lot of wealth for the middle men who were bold enough to fetch them. In Cabot's day sailing was a dangerous occupation. Sailors often lived short but adventurous lives. There were many ways men died at sea. Sometimes their ship might be caught in a fierce storm and founder. They might be attacked by pirates, or merely died of one of the many diseases that thrived on the unsanitary confines of a ship especially on a long voyage. A common ailment which was not understood was scurvy. This was a vitamin deficiency that caused the victim to lose his teeth, bleed from the gums and eventually succumb to jaundice if the person did not go mad first.

Cabot was almost certainly aware of Christopher Columbus' successful voyage to the East Indies and believed that he could find a shorter route by sailing at a more northerly latitude. The common misconception that early explorers believed the world to be flat is ludicrous. The world was known to have a spherical shape since at least the days of Ptolemy. There were, however, some uneducated individuals who harbored this belief and some of the sailors believed it. They also believed in giant sea monsters like the Kraken who could reach out of the water with it's long tentacles and pull a ship under the waves to a watery grave. The legends of the Kraken were probably based upon sightings of giant squids.

Cabot set out on his voyage from Bristol England in May of 1497. He had the sponsorship of the English king Henry VII after he had been rejected by the Spanish and Portuguese royal courts. He had attempted to sail sometime during the summer months of 1496 but for some reason or two which may have had something to do with a dispute among his crew he was forced to return to England. However, this second voyage was a lot more successful. He sailed on a small 50 ton caravel called the Matthew. It is not exactly clear exactly where Cabot landed in North America, but it is generally assumed that it was either Newfoundland or Labrador. There is some speculation that he may have even sailed as far south as Maine, but this is dubious. Most of what is known of Cabot's voyage comes from a few letters that were written shortly after his return to England in the summer of 1497. 

                                                                       John Cabot

Cabot is known to have set foot on land only once during this voyage. On June 24, a party of men landed and claimed this new land for the King of England. Cabot's party did not venture inland and saw no human beings. They did, however find evidence of human activity in the form of an old fire pit and crude tools. Cabot did not dally long on shore as he was afraid of a potential encounter with native hostiles. One of the more interesting observations of Cabot took place shortly after setting sail again. While cruising along the coast he was said to have witnessed "two forms running on land one after the other." What these two "forms" were remains a mystery to this day. The ship was far off shore and it was impossible to tell if the two forms were humans or some type of animals.

Cabot's return voyage to England took only 15 days due to the swift Atlantic current. He was granted an audience with King Henry who granted him an annual pension of 20 pounds sterling. an interesting side note to the voyage of John Cabot took place 500 years after his voyage when a replica of the Matthew set sail out of Bristol in 1997 covering the route thought to have been taken by the original Matthew.

A Poem: Seasons

By Craig: Here is a little poem that I wrote a number of years ago. In fact, 23 years to be exact. I found it in a little book of poems all written in pencil. It is called Seasons.

                                                          Seasons

Summers end brings Autumns colours
Autumn gives in to Winters chilly demand
The seasons final conclusion draws near
And is put to rest at last,
By the coming of a new year.
The evergreens seem full of glory
While the hardwoods wither from an uncertainty
A struggle among the elements
Draws nature to the point of tears
Spring beckons for Winter to end
And finally whispers in her ear
It's time to wake up and enjoy the fruits again!
That is, until your time next year
Now move aside and clear the way
For Spring is coming near!
O seeds...O seeds... where are you?
Root yourselves in the garden hither!
And reach out with your branches toward the morning sky
For it is your time now
To prove your worth
For your time is short
And the essence of your substance even shorter
Time is the nemesis of this seasons memory
But there is next year! And the year after!
Until the sun enervates and fades
At a distant time beyond human ken.