Unca Cheeks the Toy Wonder's Silver Age Comics Web Site!

"IT'S A MAN'S LIFE ON BLACKHAWK ISLAND!"

(... or "SPINNING INTO THE SUN WITH BART AND THE BOYS" Pt. 2)

To date, the general e-mail response to last week's initial installment of our BLACKHAWK Comics of the Silver Age retrospective has best been summed up by this quizzical query from redoubtable site regular Quentin Long:

"Hmmmm.... and this is your favorite Blackhawk period, is it?"

Wellllllll... yeah.

Lookit, now I'm certainly under no illusions, so far as the 1960's version of DC Comics' BLACKHAWK is concerned. While the artwork on said issues is of a comparative high level of quality (thanks to the efforts of master comics draughtsman Dick Dillin); the actual stories themselves, however...

...well you all saw what we had on display hereabouts last week, remember. (... and this week's offering makes that one look like something Alan Moore spent the last six, eight weeks sweating over, by way of comparison. So I don't wanna hear no mewlings or mutterings over How Unca Cheeks Never Warned Us It Was Gonna Be This Blamed Awful, this time out... capice?)

That being said, however the best I can offer, by way of pale explanation, is the same ol' song and snappy patter as always, really. Spavined and sway-backed though the plots may have been; as bug-eyed and hysterical as their attendant dialogue most assuredly was...

... the Books. Were. Fun. Dammit.

... and your wheezing and geriatric Unca Cheeks, now he'll take f-u-n over the reconstituted posturing and teeth-clenching and oh-so-serious faux operatics and bombast that's being slopped onto our storytelling plates nowadays. Tell you that for a nickel.

"The Moon Monster" [BLACKHAWK #221; June, 1966; story by France E. Herron; art by Dick Dillin] opens up with a shot of "the first test of a moon-bound rocket fired from... beneath the sea!"

Right at the very edge of Earth's ionosphere, however the rocket in question crashes into the moon.

With an audible CLONK.

... and then the two gigantic metal robot arms pop out of their special hatch, see, and...

... well obviously, we're not dealing with the four-color equivalent of Tom Wolfe's THE RIGHT STUFF, here. (Or even Ron Howard's APOLLO 13, for that matter. I'm just sayin', is all, here.)

Okay... so big, honkin' artificial "moon." Gobbling up unsuspecting rocket ships. With big, dopey robot arms, and stuff.

And you all wonder how Grant Morrison got that way.

We cut to within the artificial satellite, then... and get to take that first, all-important gander at this issue's incredible, awe-inspiring super- baddie.

Oh, lordy.

"One would think," the poofy little crater-faced guy in the skirt loudly declaims, to no one in particular; "... that the Earthlings might tire of trying to reach the moon... tire of losing valuable ships..."

("One would think," an eight-year-old Unca Cheeks remembers musing, at the time, "that grown men would feel at least some lingering sense of shame over chiseling twelve cents, American, out of poor, whey-faced and innocent li'l kids with crap like this.")

Suddenly, the rocket ship disgorges (and, boy, do I ever sympathize with how the rocket feels) seven space-suited and helmeted Blackhawks.

"So!" the team's noble and cleft-chinned leader ringingly declares. "This is the character who's been goofing up the space program! Nail him!"

(It is a little-known fact, you see, that President Kennedy -- just a few scant years earlier, mind -- had ramrodded the landmark "Anti-Goofing With the Space Program" legislation through both houses of a compliant [if (understandably) somewhat perplexed] Congress.

(Tragically, however the brutal assassination of this most visionary of world leaders, years later, prevented his long-range plans for similar legislation -- specifically, the Freeman/Hutchison/Selegue "No Horseplay Near the Pool, You Kids" Act and the embryonic "You Don't Mess Around With Jim" initiative -- from coming to much-needed fruition. Thus do the acts of base and cowardly men thwart the dictates of good government... and Dame History.)

With a magisterial wave of his hand, The Feeb-O-Saurus With the Truly Pressing Need For a Reputable Dermatologist freezes the sensational seven in their respective tracks, and then takes it upon himself (as putative "host," in this particular situation) to effect the requisite introductions.

"I am the Moonster," sayeth The Man Who Would Be John Glenn; "... Master of the Moon! I came here to Earth to put an end to your annoying space probes! Do you think we want the likes of earthlings on our little world? We wouldn't give a plugged moon nickel for the likes of you!"

Thus airily dissed and dismissed by the lunar loonie ("... a plugged moon nickel"...?), the Blackhawks are summarily shoved out the nearest airlock and sent hastily a-tumble, Earthwards.

From the edge of outer space, mind.

The Ace Aviators, however, survive their fearsome downward descent, thanks both to the mental alacrity of their fabled leader and the last-ditch fortuity of their being able to deploy their parachutes.

From. The. Edge. Of. OUTER. SPACE. Mind.

"Dunder!" the Dutch Hendrickson exclaims. "This is r-r-rough!"

"It ban easier than hitting without chutes, py yimminy!" that near-genius, Olaf, observes. (This is why these guys all get to run around in leather pants and shout "Haaa-Kaaaaawww!" for a living; and the rest of you spent this afternoon in your torn underwear, idly scratching yourselves and watching that re-re-run of BOY MEETS WORLD.)

"Later," the following caption helpfully provides, " in Space Probe HQ," a tight-lipped Blackhawk informs his military commander that "I know you won't believe what we'll tell you, sir, but both Chop-Chop and I had cameras in our helmets! Chop-Chop's was smashed -- but mine is intact! You'll see what happened...!"

(" [...] Chop-Chop and I had cameras in our helmets! Chop-Chop's was smashed" --? What... the guy landed on his head while parachuting, did he...?!?)

After reviewing the tape of the team's unfortunate altercation with the Moonster -- and manfully throttling the wholly understandable urge to roll about the floor, howling -- said government liaison confides in our heroes that "Without your film [...] I would've suspected that you were victims of mass hallucination! [...] Are we actually confronted by... a... a living moon creature? But that's impossible! Science has proven there's no life on the moon!"

(For some odd reason, I always get this real kick out of people in comics unequivocally stating that This Thing or That One is "scientifically impossible"; given that they inhabit, after all, worlds replete with such Niven-ish, "hard science" concepts as flying super-dogs, -cats and -horses; sentient pink magical thunderbolts; and chipmunks wielding all-but-omnipotent "power rings." Oh, yeah somebody get me Stephen Hawking's phone number... muy pronto.)

Suddenly (as they say in the comics game), the entire city is blacked out, and an electronically amplified voice booms:

"Attention, Earth people! This entire area is cloaked in an eclipse... a Moonster eclipse!"

"I can black out your entire world," the aggressively anti-social alien informs his thunderstruck audience; "... unless you listen to me! The public must rise up and put an end to moon-landing attempts!"

It's an interesting ploy, this fight-the-power-my-brothers approach; but all it nets Herr Moonster, ultimately, is an angrily launched salvo of missiles, by way of governmental response. ("That fraud posing as a 'moon-man' has gone too far! When I press this button, high-powered missiles will bring his kooky craft down!")

Said "kooky craft," however, proves frustratingly difficult to slap down.

"Ha, ha," the Moonster mocks, as the ineffective barrage nets his foemen precisely bupkis. "Your pea-shooters look a bit silly, don't they? They cannot penetrate my protective... uh... bubble!"

Once more, the... uh... Blackhawks take to the skies in their... uh... Hawk-Copter; only to end up at the wrong end of one of the Moonster's mechanical robot arms, a second time.

"Not so fast, Moonster," Blackhawk advises, via loudspeaker. "We're on a friendly visit! What about a pow-wow?"

"This is a surprise," the Naughty Nocturnal grudgingly confesses. "I left you Blackhawks for dead! Oh, well... what's your pitch?" To which Our Heroes respond, in turn [Pick One]:

A.) "We want you to talk to the authorities!"

B.) "Ever hear of a little something we here Earthlings like to call... Amway...?"

C.) "Stridex Oxy-10. Buckets of it. You could be a handsome devil, you know, Moonsie. Think of the babe factor."

D.) "We bring you the severed head of 'Buzz' Aldrin, O Prince..."

E.) "Give ya two moon nickels to lay off that tired 'Hear Me, Earthlings' crap."

F.) "Two moon nickels. And Olaf. He likes 'em big and sternly authoritarian."

Sadly, however the Moonster is in no mood to palaver, and kaZAPS the 'hawks with something he refers to as his "Moonglow Beam."

"Vot gives mit you, Chuck?" an uncomprehending Hendrickson exclaims, in reaction to his teammate's subsequent transformation.

"I've got news for you, Hendy," the group's token American responds. "Just don't look in a mirror!"

Within seconds the entire squadron of airmen has been morphed into quarrelsome, quasi-gaseous creatures... and furiously set to pummeling the holy living bejeesus out of one another, in inexplicable turn (!!).

"Ha-ha," the Non-Diurnal Dictator chortles, observing the melee. "Wonderful... positively wonderful! All seven of them have succumbed to my moon madness rays... and now they're trying to destroy each other!"

Okay, now here's where things really turn tres dopey in a colossal, four-color hurry.

"Gerald!" a voice cries out, from off-panel. "You must put an end to this!"

(No kidding. I mean, it, now. You probably don't wanna see this.)

"Huh?" the Moonster exclaims, spinning about to confront this (comparatively) teeny-tiny lady-type person, posed fetchingly behind him. "Who are you? How did you get here?"

"I am your fiancee, Gerald!" the diminutive doll face plaintively responds. "I came up here in my own 'copter! You were concentrating on the Blackhawks... you didn't see me!"

(Ya know... the "France E. Herron" credited with the script for this particular issue it's a name pretty much unknown to me, outside of the occasional BLACKHAWKS comic of the period. I gotta think -- right here; right now -- that there's one darned good reason for that, ultimately.)

"My fiancee...?" a sneering Moonster replies. "I have no 'fiancee'!" (Oh, gee; and with rugged good looks and a sparkling personality like that? Go figure, huh...?)

"Bah! I can utterly destroy you," the cranky crater-head continues; "... with one little vaporizing ray from my fingertip! Do you wish to die?"

("Vaporizing ray," hell; just wait until the honeymoon betwixt this sorely mismatched twosome. You wanna talk about agonized shriekings and blood caked on the walls, now...)

"Naomi... Naomi... Naomi!" the Moonster moans, cradling his macroencephalic noggin in his hands. My head spins... I seem to recollect the name... go away, whoever you are!"

"I'll go away, Gerald," the plucky young miss responds; "... if you take the Blackhawks out of their... trance! Restore their minds, Gerald!"

("Restore," she says. "Restore." Heh.)

Another languid wave of the oversized palm... and within the ubiquitous "Hawk-Copter" -- which has somehow, by the by, managed to stay airborne throughout the growling and knuckle-dusting taking place within -- the Blackhawks find themselves returned to (for lack of any happier or more accurate phrasing) normalcy once more.

"By gar!" a flabbergasted Stanislaus exclaims. "What we doing?"

"I'll tell you 'what we doing'," a coldly furious Blackhawk responds. "We were having hallucinations... knocking each other's brains out! It was moon madness [...]!"

Scant moments later a tear-stricken and much distressed Naomi takes it upon herself to bail out of her aisle seat on Air Moonster; to which the unfailingly perceptive Chuck -- bucking for that "Junior Batmen of America" detection merit badge, doubtless -- responds with "Great guns! A girl!"

"Oui," a leering Andre enthuses. "A bee-you-tee-ful girl, non? Let's join her!"

(Anything. Andre would do it with anydamnthing. Women. Men. Gophers. Rutabagas. Congealed FLOOR WAX, even. He was a super-freak; super-FREAK; super-freaky, yow. Temptations sing -- !)

"You understand, miss" a shame-faced Blackhawk murmurs on their way back towards terra firma; "... we're leaving only because we're concerned with your safety." (Translated from the He-Man Aviator-ese "We aren't wussies or nothin', li'l lady. Heck, no! We drink beer an' everything!")

"I know," Naomi soothes. "I depended on that." (Translation "Lookit, Leather-Boy I know all about the whole 'Fantasy Island' trip you and The Boys In the Band have got going, awright? And the Streisand's Greatest Hits in the tape deck here is a dead giveaway. So don't feel you have to 'butch' things up on my account.")

As Naomi explains it "the Moonster" is -- in actual point of fact -- her luckless, lunar colonization-obsessed fiancee, "Gerald."

"There can be no life on the moon, you understand," the bug-eyed loo -- ummmm... "man of science," I mean -- exposits to his future helpmeet, by way of flashback. "... but what about inside the moon? Ah... that's different, eh?"

"Yes" (he continues); "... inside the moon, I suspect there is a civilized life form! Not only that, but I think they've been observing us!"

Making the universally recognized finger-circling-around-the-ear sign to herself, a compliant Naomi nevertheless allows herself to be ushered from Gerald's laboratory...

... which -- mere heartbeats later -- is the sitee of one mutha of an explosion.

Look you've all been reading these things for very nearly as long as Unca Cheeks has... so it was either gonna be this, or else the old bitten-by-a-radioactive-moon dodge, right...?

Meanwhile a bunch of opportunistic gunsels -- masterminded (such as it may be) by one "Alfie" -- are poncing about in orange jumpsuits and blue body make-up, and attempting to gull Mr. In-Space-There-Is-No- Jeopardy! into believing that they are fellow "lunarnauts" (from " [...] the dark side of the moon! Nobody ever sees us!") who come bearing urgent news of "another secret moon landing" attempt on the part of the accursed "Earthmen."

(In actuality Alfie and Company are maneuvering Big Dummy Gerald into attacking "a gold bullion ship! We'll let him do the work... then we'll move in!" It's the shoddy sort of supremely imbecilic stratagem which would never stand so much as a fleeting chance of taking in a Lex Luthor or a Ra's al Ghul, to be sure...

... but, then again "the Moonster" is nobody's Lex Luthor, is he...?)

Well your long-suffering and dutiful Unca Cheeks is as thoroughly sick of looking at this Major Goober as all of you are, I dare say...

... so we'll wrap things up by explaining that the ever-resourceful Blackhawks send the Moonster (along with Alfie's All-Feeb Squadron) spinning towards the sea with some anti-aircraft missiles -- cunningly disguised as an ill-starred "meteor swarm," you see -- which has the beneficial (read c-o-n-v-e-n-i-e-n-t) side-effect of transforming Ol' Born Clueless back into a waterlogged and bewildered Gerald.

"Now that you're okay again, Gerald," Blackhawk opines, in summation; "... do you realize what your fantastic secrets will mean to science?"

"Sorry, Blackhawk," a glum Gerald responds. "But those secrets were dreamed up when I was the Moonster! [...] Maybe... if I [...] somehow become the Moonster again, I can hand you those secrets on a platter!" To which Your Unca Cheeks replies, in turn [Pick One]:

A.) "Shyeah. Riiiiight. Dial 1-800-I-DON'T-THINK-SO, Goober."

B.) "... and maybe I could tear both my eyes from their sockets and set fire to 'em, while we're bloody at it."

C.) "Hello? National Child Abuse Hotline? I want to report a certain mainstream comic book publisher, please..."

D.) " 'France E. Herron'... that's really one of Mike Friedrich's pseudonyms, isn't it? I'm right, aren't I? It's the Great Satan himself ! Come on out and fight me like a MAN, damn you, Freidrich -- !!"

More of the BLACKHAWK Comic Books of the Silver Age... right here; next week.

Price of admission one moon nickel. "Plugged" or otherwise.

The BLACKHAWK Comics of the Silver Age (PAGE ONE)

The BLACKHAWK Comics of the Silver Age (PAGE THREE)

The BLACKHAWK Comics of the Silver Age (PAGE FOUR)

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