Welcome to the 20th annual Wriphe.com Superman Month! What a nice, round, mature number.

This time last year, DC Comics was celebrating the impending release of their latest Superman movie with the "Summer of Superman" publishing initiative. One year later, Superman is literally nowhere to be seen in the DC Universe. Earlier this year, the Man of Steel won a tournament to the death and then disappeared from existence. His comic books are still being published with various children in his stead in a storyline that DC is calling "Reign of the Superboys." DC tells us it is selling very well, but the Superman fans I know don't seem very enthusiastic. I don't blame them. Who wants to pay $5 for a comic that doesn't feature their titular hero?

"Who wants to pay $5 for a comic?" I hear you asking. You make a good point. But this month is about Superman, not the economics of nostalgia.

I also hear some of you you asking, "Who cares about Superman?" I do, for one, and not just for nostalgic reasons. Superman might be a morally inflexible overgrown boy scout in bright pajamas, but at my advancing age, I increasingly enjoy the company of strong characters who still believe that Truth, Justice, and the American Way aren't all mutually incompatible.

Superman: The Man of Steel #80, June 1998

Yeah, he can be a bit preachy. Nobody's perfect.

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While walking the dogs, I came up with a great idea for a blog post. I really thought it all out, too, paragraph by paragraph. But I made a mistake. Instead of typing it all up when I came back to the house, I instead sat down and played video games. As you can guess, now that I'm at my keyboard, I have no idea what it all was.

To be fair to me, I didn't go straight to video games. Before I played video games, I made a cup of coffee and a sandwich and moved seven boxes of comic books upstairs and watched Jeopardy!. Somehow, I can remember a lot of trivia, but I cannot remember what I was going to post right here.

If I'm being really fair, I should also admit that after I played video games, I then ate some sardines for dinner, drank another cup of coffee, watched Balls Up on Amazon Prime, and then sorted some comic books before I sat down here at my keyboard. One just shouldn't do that. Watch Balls Up, I mean.

In the continued interest of fairness, I'll say that I don't think this film's failure is entirely the fault of the underwritten script or the casting choices (although I find Mark Wahlberg only funny as a straight man making reaction shots, so I'd say it was a mistake to give him any jokes at all). Comedy, even puerile comedy, is built on subversion of expectations and timing, and this exceedingly puerile movie has neither. I expected better from Oscar-winning director Peter Farrelly, director of There's Something About Mary. My first laugh came at 41 minutes when the editor finally had the good sense to just leave Sasha Baron Cohen in frame while he was being silly. Sometimes the best editing is the least. For the record, my second and final laugh came late, at the well-telegraphed scene involving a vampire fish trapped in the urinary meatus of a penis. I don't know if it was a practical effect or CGI, but the absurdity of the situation definitely gave off welcome There's Something About Mary vibes. Finally.

So now you can see how I forgot what I was going to post. Could you remember five paragraphs after all that? No, of course not. No one could. At least the stream-of-consciousness dribble I wrote above is probably way better than whatever I had composed in my head. And, to paraphrase a much funnier movie, Brett Favre is the guy you should be with. I just want you to be happy, Mary.

52/2622. Balls Up (2026)

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Seeing that this blog doubles as my personal diary, I feel I need to make note of the passing of Friend Michael, killed too young by cancer.

Rummaging around my archives for a pic of Mike to commemorate the sad occasion, I found this, taken (probably by James) in the parking lot of Medieval Times in Lawrenceville in June 2013.

Talking comic books and acting like big dorks. Yeah, I think pretty accurately encapsulates our three decade friendship.

Thanks for the good times, Mike.

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One last word on this Christmas season: this year, I attended a 2025 community theater loose adaptation of A Christmas Carol as a play, watched the 1938 MGM film version on TCM, and then read Charles Dickens' original 1843 book on Project Gutenberg to check how the others deviate.

137/2569. A Christmas Carol (1938)

Mostly, the key differences are the heavier emphasis on Bob Cratchit and Fred and the costume design of the spirits, but also the visual adaptations tend to leave out Scrooge meeting his own corpse. (The Ghost of Christmas Future goes hard.) These days, corpses aren't very Christmas-y.

I have never cared for Scrooge's abrupt change of heart, but Dickens clearly isn't much interested in how Scrooge became a miser or why he suddenly gave a shit about Tiny Tim so much as he's selling that kindness and charity are the only way for a society to become a community. "Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset." I do not personally enjoy the Christmas season, but I don't think Dickens is wrong.

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As I usually find when I already have an inkling of the correct answer, Google's AI response is wrong. (Is it ever right? What's the point of having access to the accrued knowledge of the human race if you never actually read it?)

I've read a lot of Superman comics, and I know that Superman has a yellow S-shield on a cape. However, I'll grant that not a lot of people actually read comic books anymore, Google apparently included. I'll also grant that Superman's cape in the influential 1940s animated Fleisher Studio cartoons was solid red (to make the animation easier and less costly), a trend that has been followed often in animated adaptations for similar reasons. But every live-action adaptation since Kirk Alyn's 15-part 1948 Superman serial has an S-shield on his cape. Maybe Google needs to watch more television.

Google's obviously wrong answer sent me looking through old comics for the real answer to my question of its first appearance, and the earliest I could find the cape shield in my copies of The Superman Chronicles reprints was in the historically significant¹ untitled Superman story² in Action Comics #13, cover dated June 1939, published on April 14, 1939.

Here's a sample panel, easily found in a Google Search™ (once I knew what I was looking for):

And, as if I needed any further confirmation, here are the issue's indexer notes from the fantastic (and Google-able) Grand Comics Database (GCD), online at comics.org since 1994:

The "S" symbol first appears on Superman's cape. ... Paul Cassidy is credited with adding the "S" symbol to the cape (but it only appears in some panels and not others), and the pencils and inks here look like his work. Note in particular the odd flying poses of Superman in panels one and five of the final page, which are characteristic of Cassidy. He claimed that [Superman creators Jerry] Siegel and [Joe] Shuster gave both he and Wayne Boring free reign to interpret the scripts as they liked.

Old school library for the win. Why did you make that so hard, Google?

¹ Action Comics #13 is most famous for being the first appearance of Superman's first recurring super villain: a bald criminal mastermind who vowed to "use this great intellect for crime" who called himself The Ultra-Humanite. (What, did you think it was Lex Luthor? That second-rate knock-off wouldn't show up for another 12 months.)

² The original publication has no printed title, which is not uncommon at the time. Modern reprints often refer this story as "Superman vs. the Cab Protective League," named for a protection racket organized by, you guessed it, the Ultra-Humanite. His criminal genius obviously didn't extend to naming things.

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I'm pretty sure that tonight's game matching #10 Texas against #5 Georgia was the last game I'm going to see in Sanford Stadium as a season ticket holder.

To ensure we made it this time (after the traffic fiasco that prevented us from seeing Mississippi last month), Mom and I left the house four-and-a-half hours early. For many years, we parked at Clarke Central High School, where parking fees helped fund extracurricular activities, but as the University has driven tailgating farther and farther from expensive campus lots, the high school now fills up extra early. So we parked at the dentist office across the street instead. Mom wanted to walk the old route through the student center into the stadium, which ultimately only served as a reminder that the University has built new barriers to block it. Oh well. We had plenty of time, and were still in our seats 90 minutes before kickoff, even after I was misled by some context clues (temporary stadium seats that looked like the old seat backs replaced earlier this year) and mistakenly accused someone else of being in our seats. Poor Mom. She's usually in bed by 9, but we didn't get home again until after 2AM. (Don't worry about Audrey: the dogsitter got her fed and to bed on time.)

As it happens, the guy I wrongly asked to move has been attending UGA games for decades, even after moving from Covington, GA, to Florida, but he said after a few decades, he canceled his season tickets and now instead spends that money and more buying tickets on the secondary market just for the games he wants to attend (in Athens and in other locations for other teams). It's a sound plan, one I've been contemplating a lot recently in this modern era of pay-for-play college football. Once upon a time, the university told me my donations bought books and meals. Now, my money finances base salaries, freeing big-donor money to outbid other colleges for the best kickers in the transfer portal. Somehow, I don't find that as satisfying.

Which is not to say that I don't think the players should be paid. Since they are the product, they should get the lion's share of whatever the football program takes in. But it's also fair for me to judge whether I think I'm getting my value's worth from my season tickets. Given that I only made it to two games this year (UGA closes its home schedule next week against 1-9 Charlotte at 12:45 PM, and I am definitely not going), I think the math is pretty clear.

As it happens, when I wasn't stuck in my own head thinking about the future, I did notice there was also a football game played in Athens. It was okay, but it certainly did not live up to the hype. (Though I'm probably spoiled by the two spectacular wins UGA put on Texas last season.) Georgia was pretty obviously the better team for most of this game, even if their offensive coordinator was calling predictable plays that made Texas's defensive line look amazing for about half the game. But the imprecision of the Longhorn's youthful quarterback (some kid named Arch Manning) ultimately doomed them. You'll read in the tabloids about fourth down conversions and an onside kick that blew the game open late, but Georgia had 14 points by halftime, more than enough to win what would become a 35-10 blowout. Good Dogs.

I hope that some other team will be nice and give Georgia a chance to play in the SEC title game. If that happens, I'll happily watch that game with my dogs beside me on the couch.

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Today is my fiftieth birthday. That's a nice, round, easy-to-add number, which is probably why I remember figuring in elementary school that I would turn 50 in the distant, future year 2025. That seemed a very long way off back then. A 50-year-old me still feels a long way off, and I guess that's just going to have to be good enough.

UPDATE: Look at this sweet stack of books that my aunt gave me! Famous Last Words: An Anthology, A Brief History of Death, Pulp Empire: The Secret History of Comic Imperialism, The Fires of Lust: Sex on the Middle Ages, But Can I Start a Sentence with "But"?: Advice from the Chicago Style Q&A, Who's a Good Dog?: And How to Be a Better Human, Canine Confidential: Why Dogs Do What They Do, and Show People: A History of the Film Star. (Don't blame her. I picked all of those titles out from a University of Chicago Press catalog. What can I say? I like to read about death, comic books, sex, grammar, dogs, and movies, maybe even in that order.)

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Welcome to the 20th Annual Wriphe.com Batman and Football Month!

Twenty years is a long time. Not so long for Batman, though. He's a spry 87 years old and still fighting crime!

Not that you'd know he's an octogenarian from reading comic books. Comics have a way of sliding time so that "the past" is always no more than twenty years ago. For example, when Batman has a flashback to his college football days in 1978, it somehow looks like the facemask-free 1950s.

Batman Vol. 39, No. 304, Oct 1978

Some people will go to any length to stay young.

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It's once again time for the annual Little League World Series, and as usual, ESPN loves to share the favorite foods, celebrities, and school subjects of participating 11 and 12-year-olds. One of them says he would spend lottery winnings buying the Boston Red Sox, which would have to be one hell of a jackpot. But it was another one that really got me thinking: when asked who he most wanted to meet, his answer was "my future self." Damn, kid, that's a monkey's paw wish if I ever heard one.

What tween is going to be satisfied with their adult form? Every pre-adolescent kid I ever knew thought they were pretty close to perfect, and why shouldn't they? Childhood is a responsibility-free zone, our parents live to tell us how great we are, and teen literature YouTube videos^[1] are full of stupid adults who crash every party, stamp out all the fun, and make stupid decisions that ruin the world. That last bit is far more accurate than most "adults" would care to admit.. Allow me to point out that the Hippies grew into Yuppies. Logan's Run may have a point.

So what happens when a kid looks at their future self and realizes that they "sold out"? In Back to the Future II, Doc Brown is careful to keep Marty away from his future self, who has become a corporate tool and a total loser. That's ironically funny to the audience, sure, because Marty spent the first movie being such a cool, confident teen that he made his dopey father cool by association; to see that Marty eventually becomes his father is obviously his worst nightmare^[2] and good dramatic structure. But if Cool Marty met Middle-Age Marty, as Doc Brown would say, that probably is going to result in the destruction of the entire universe. Or at least the local galaxy. In either case, Cool Marty's self-confidence is going to be badly shaken.

Obviously, I think I'd probably be a disappointment to my younger self. Sure, I have a better control on my temper, much stronger purchasing power, and I've read a whole bunch more books. However, I'm also bald, worried about my health,^[3] and live in a basement. I'm sure I didn't have exactly lofty expectations—I never wanted to be particularly rich or famous so much as I just wanted people to recognize how wonderful I am and then leave me alone—but how satisfying could it have been to learn that mentally I'll be largely the same anti-social, anxiety-riddled, selfish prick I was in the 7th grade (now with temperature-sensitive teeth and extra poodles)?

So do yourselves a favor, kids. When ESPN asks you who you want to meet, just say Shaquille O'Neal. Everyone loves Shaq.

^[1] According to the Associated Press, in Oct 2024 only 14% of school-age kids read books for fun anymore. I don't know what the percentage was back in my day; I've seen unqualified statistics that suggest it may have been closer to 50%, but I have doubts it was that high. Judging only by my own experience and how excited my coterie of friends always got for the Scholastic Book Fair, I'm inclined to say it was closer to 100%. But we didn't really hang around the baseball playing crowd.

^[2] Every kid's worst nightmare? Just me?

^[3] Seriously, the most memorable scene for me in Beverly Hills Cop is Billy telling Sarge about the concerning amount of undigested red meat in the bowels of a 50-year-old man. I'm trying, Billy. I'm trying.

^[4] Sorry about all these footnotes. I may have become a bit conditioned because the book I just finished seems to average one footnote per page... for over 400 pages. That book, by the way, was Eve: How the Female Body Drove 200 Million Years of Human Evolution, which is nonfiction anthropology about exactly what it says on the cover. Twelve-year-old Walter would *definitely* be disappointed in what I choose to read for "fun" these days.

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Fifteen years ago, the top ten keywords at Wriphe.com were "comic books," "football," "news," "holidays," "batman," "superman," "movies," "television," "wriphe.com," and "uga" (which at some point in the past decade I changed to "georgia" because I now use Uga exclusively to refer to the UGA Bulldog mascot).

As of today, the top ten keywords are "movies," "comic strip," "poodle strip," "walter," "poodles," "football," "comic books," "news," "holidays," and "havanese strip."

The five constants there are "comic books," "football," "holidays," "movies," and "news."

I don't know what that means, if anything. I just thought I'd point it out.

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