Gasoline is up to four dollars a gallon! It’ll be up to FIVE dollars by Christmas! In five years, we’ll be looking back on these times as a golden age as we pay up to TWELVE DOLLARS A GALLON for the noxious liquid! We’ve all heard the wailing. Well, it can’t bother me too much, because not only are my wife and I still filling up and driving all the way to the next town for a freaking vegan cheeseburger (shades of Presley), but we still squander stupid amounts of treasure on useless crap that we find in second-hand stores. Was it the exhaust fumes or the post-lunchtime torpor that caused me to decide to spend ten dollars recently on a plastic bag filled with European postcards?

“Food for the beast,” I justified — yes, this blog’s gotta eat too. And as I sorted through the piles of dusty, faded paper, I wracked my brain for an appropriate criterion for which to separate out a handful large enough to be representative and yet small enough to fit into my limited blogging window. Old shit? Well, it’s all old shit. Buildings? Castles? You’ve seen ‘em. Pictures of humans dressed up funny? Maybe next week. Stuff that no longer exists? I can barely translate the inscriptions on the back; think I want to research them all?

But as I went through the stack, what began to jump out at me was not the huge lumps of wood and rock at the center of the frame, nor the quaint folk ephemera, but rather the tiny specks of vintage steel clustering in the lower thirds. Yes, it was the beautiful old cars evoking the ache this time. Back in mid-sixties Europe, they already had a feel for scarcity, and sized their vehicles accordingly. And why not? Hell, in some parts of the continent, thanks to sensible and far-sighted tax policy, gas is already pushing up towards the ten bucks a gallon ceiling. Which means the beauties in these pictures are already more of a historical oddity than our trucks and SUVs are on their way to becoming.


 

It is unknown if this is the result of tight deadlines, an overbooked client card, or just lack of interest on Davis’ part. Perhaps turn of the century America didn’t resonate as deeply with him as did the civil war era. Or perhaps he was simply drawn less to Roosevelt than Lincoln. Certainly, he is not alone. Despite his central place in the presidential pantheon, Roosevelt remains a controversial figure. One of the architects of the modern presidency — larger than life, media-friendly, and the central figure in his own bona fide cult of personality — Roosevelt is both lionized as a “trust busting” conservationist and pilloried as a jingoistic war monger.

In his article for the Ludwig von Mises Institute site, “No More ‘Great Presidents,’” Robert Higgs goes so far as to call Roosevelt a “proto-fascist.” Bemoaning the swollen place of the presidency in the current political scene, Higgs outlines the role of the executive branch in an administration which “governs best by governing least.” Which hurts a country more, he asks: a term dogged by political scandal (as in the case of Grant or Harding) or one perusing a murderous agenda (i.e. Lincoln or Franklin Roosevelt)?

Happily, in our present day and age, we aren’t forced to choose between either of these over-simplified polarities. Nowadays, corruption and imperialism are two great tastes that seem to go great together. Fortunately for Davis’ young audience, his illustrations indict Roosevelt for political sins no greater than ambition and big game hunting.



Georgia native Davis’ interest in the Civil War era crops up throughout his career. In addition to his EC war comic output (where his occasional stories about the Civil War included one about Abraham Lincoln), he also took a later stab at a humorous war daily about a Confederate soldier named Beauregard. His work for the 1965 “Step Up” book, “Meet Abraham Lincoln” reflects his passion for the period as well as his extensive research. His attention to detail is found everywhere, from the intricate backgrounds to the exquisitely rendered interiors. The detailed pen and wash drawings are much more ambitious than the flamboyant brush work more commonly found in his canon, but they none the less display a playfulness of caricature indicative of a book aimed at young readers.

Lovers of Lincoln lore will enjoy these illustrations just as much as comics fans. They trace the myth of America’s greatest president: his humble origins and his nascent talent for public speaking, his early ambitious pursuits and the courtship of his wife, his elevation to the highest office in the land, the war precipitated by his election, the historic tracts which cemented his place in history and, ultimately, his demise. Davis lovingly illustrates the story with the energy and sense of drama that betrays the hand of a true believer. His stirring battle panoramas are marred only by my rather clumsy attempts to edit out the binding gutters.

“Meet Abraham Lincoln” is still in print. However, the Jack Davis illustrations no longer accompany Barbara Cary’s text. They have been replaced by new drawings, which, needless to say, in no way match the vision of one of this country’s greatest and most prolific illustrators. But take heart, Davis fans! All you have to do is scroll down and get to clickin’.

In those days, I had a whole arsenal of characters. Kee-Lah was a blithe, childlike everyman, protected from the effects of his awesome self absorption by the sheer fact that he was fictitious. Painman was one of many deconstructionalist superheroes. He seems to derive his power from the jaded assumption that his use of physical force will achieve the desired outcome. The narrative treats his victory as a foregone conclusion, concerning itself merely with the inevitable restoration of normalcy. Prez is another meta-character whose only purpose is to follow the conceit of his conception to its logical extreme.

As for the Burger Family, perhaps the less said about them the better. They do lead me to suspect however, that spending most of your day sitting in front of a notebook might be a practice greatly aided by a certain deliberately induced state of mind.

The three stamps in the “For Defense” series were actually issued in 1940 to help convince the public of the inevitability of American participation in the war. Once that inevitability finally arrived, the very snappy purple cheerleading number came out. Nowadays, you can get these attractive designs on eye-catching tee-shirts, sure to please both the ironist and the patriot on your gift list. And they have no cancellation marks.

Britain, on the other hand, was having its own problem managing public buy-in. Specifically, could the country stomach a monarch that not only advocated fascism but willingly consorted with a divorcée? Not so much, as it turns out. A quick abdication was engineered, but not soon enough to stop the presses. So a very sharp series of Edward VIII stamps saw light of day, featuring a crisp stark profile that would have even satisfied his friends and family over in the Third Reich. The public liked it as well, but since they all horded their copies hoping they might be worth something someday, it is in fact extremely common.

Using the profile of your own local strongman has long been a widely accepted practice among the various developing postal entities here on earth. But if your country’s political climate is unstable and your man isn’t as strong as initially hoped, sometimes it’s better to hedge your bets. I like the route taken by the Togolese Republic. When in doubt, you can always celebrate the availability of the coconut while you wait out the political storm.

Soon the girlfriend moved out and the roadie decided to follow another band to Seattle. He tried to mitigate the money he owed me by leaving a bunch of his junk behind in a storage room adjacent to the garage. One afternoon, in a fit of reclamation, I got rid of it. I traded the records for credit, donated the clothes to charity, hung on to a couple of interesting publications, including the stamps in this series, and threw the rest out.

I can’t believe my old roomate ever collected stamps; he must have hung on to these for sentimental reasons. Or else, he acquired them himself from another past roomate who owed him money. They are definitely not the coolest dustcatchers lying around my house, nor the most valuable. I’d have to devote my life to researching the variances in printing and postmark to see if I have any profound rarities. Otherwise, I’d probably have to pay a collector to take them off my hands. The only real value they have to me is creating a nice big Flickr checkerboard.



Back in high school, I was naive enough to think we had them safely on the ropes. The Watergate affair and its attendant fallout was so encouraging. But three decades later, it’s obvious my optimism was premature. Bombing innocent foreigners, depriving the American people of their civil rights, robbing the country blind at the behest of corporate cronies — as it turns out, this stuff doesn’t really bother people all that much. Hell, the man in the big chair does it today — no problem. But the swearing was just too much. After the release of the transcripts of Nixon’s White House tapes, the country realized that they didn’t have a nice person in the White House. They just weren’t comfortable having such a potty mouth for president.

After that, America stuck with candidates that seemed like ordinary family men, folks that reminded them of the guy next door. Mainstream media began giving more and more play to the reactionary “family values” that continue to dominate the discourse today. But back then, we considered it an aberration, the decadent death throes of an old order. If we paid any attention at all to such “spokespersons” as Anita Bryant and Pat Buchanan, it was only to laugh at them. When, after a highly entertaining local political contest, the despicable John Conlan lost the Republican primary to the equally hateful Sam Steiger, who in turn took a trouncing from the Democrat Dennis DeConcini, how could we not puff up our chests? How were we to know how much grass roots ground work these forces were laying? Who could have guessed how effectively they would sweep back up on the table what I had always believed to be be dead straw issues like personal liberty, freedom from theocracy and sane foreign policy? Perhaps if we had known then what we know now, we may have chosen more effective weapons against them than custard cream.


Expletive Deleted

The family that campaigns together

The presidential sibling demeans our beer

Funnies reflect American values

Singers seeks prison terms for homosexuals

Patrick Buchanan denounces Gay Pride Week

Woman Derives Being From Man

Conlan Disputes Accusation

Sex Film Protest

Lipstick message in Idaho threatens Carter

Schafly meets Kay: The pieman strikes!

After a couple hours of leisurely research, we made our choice: a new vacuum cleaner! I spent the rest of the weekend eagerly sucking incredible quantities of dirt and pet hair out of our lives. But Monday returned as it always does, and with it, another week of petty dramatics, inefficiency and indifference. Not to mention the stuff my co-workers do that bothers me.

What kind of person counts the minutes at work so he can spend the weekend doing housework? Well, around my house, you never know what treasures you’ll find once you start moving things around. I discovered these fabulous ruins under a particularly intractable clump of pet hair. The product of a previous attempt at organization, these crumbling artifacts were glued to old sheets of scratch paper and discarded in a corner. I know: if I don’t want my collection to end up in the belly of my vacuum or clinging to the linings of my sinuses, I need to move the whole mess to a climate controlled underground bunker somewhere in Montana. Believe me: I’m working on it.

In the meantime, I offer consolation to the also-overworked among you. It could be worse: It could be 1944. People worked in conditions far worse than yours and mine. And the consumer distractions available back then were meager at best.


Job security — Nazi style

Plan on eating with us at your convenience

Ah, the fifties! When innovation blossomed, conformity abounded and paranoia lurked behind every tree! (Or so I hear — I wasn’t alive then.)

Rather than offer fresh historic perspective, don’t these laboriously culled excerpts merely serve to confirm our own self-serving predjudices? We love to laugh at these tatters of media ephermera, at the unashamed nakedness of their bias, at the barefaced innocence of their wrongheaded arrogance. Otherwise, we’d be forced to admit that we have more in common with our former selves than we care to admit.

Let’s face it: we’re no less xenophobic and consumption obsessed today than the folks from back then. It’s just that our ad design isn’t as clean nowadays, and the quality of our news reporting isn’t as good. No matter how much we may slap each other on the backs over the clarity of our insights and the industry of our endeavors, we’re still grounded in the same old dead end. At the end of the day, it’s all about grinding out survival via the buying and selling of goods and services.

Consider the poor bastard who sweats through the pursuit of a liberal arts degree and lands himself a good job on the local newspaper. There, he discovers a life of working until three in the morning, cranking out mindless copy to fill holes in the layout. “Through These Columns Pass Announcements of the World’s Finest Products Offered at Interesting Prices.” Fifty years later, the sour stink of self-loathing jumps right off the yellowing page and cuts right through the mold and mildew.


When getting and spending, happiness our aim, life can be beautiful:

Ezy Angel Mix has ‘em all talking
The king of cottage cheese
No more dust
Sales are up when heat and humidity are down
Let a check do it for you
I sure wish all my customers paid by check

Fighting the good fight:

The Red Braid
A staunch believer in advertising the product
Fallout from the “Couppee incident”

The view from the funnies:

Clean up the breeding place
Homework=Schoolwork
Thanx to many grocers
The other red menace

We’re running a little behind around here. Witness last week’s tribute to Buck Owens — who died two weeks ago — on the Meat Puppets blog. This week, we offer a slice of Apple history on the occasion of it being a week after their 30th Anniversary. (Our apologies to first time visitors Googling for housecleaning tips.)

A quick glance at the photos from this old Apple IIc manual holds the key to Apple’s success in the late 70s and early 80s. The message here is clear: buying a computer will get you laid. What woman could resist the lure of a roaring fire, a great bottle of wine, and the promise of a romantic evening spent fighting with cables? It also makes a great fashion accessory. Imagine how smart you’ll look lugging your new Apple IIc home on the subway in your matching flats, sweatshirt and fleece throw-on?

I bought my first Apple computer — a Macintosh IIci — from my neighbor, using per diem money I saved up while touring in 1994. It had ten megs of hard drive space and 4 megs of RAM (which I later maxed out at a whopping 16 megs, for an astronomical cost), and originally sold for upward of six grand. Those were the days! Twelve years and thousands of dollars later, I still use Apple products. Hell, if it weren’t for Macintosh, there would be no Bostworld. And as you all know by now, life without Bostworld would be unbearable.

But Apple isn’t the only once celebrating an anniversary in April. Ten years ago this month, I finally rose to the challenge of turning a long distance online flirtation into a face-to-face meeting with the woman who would become my wife. So Apple wasn’t wrong: my computer did indeed get me laid.

For those of you more interested in computers than sex, I uploaded scans of the entire manual to Flickr.