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

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

What I'm about to type, here, is just about as close to actual, working heresy as is possible to achieve, in modern comics fandom.

It... ummmm... concerns those venerable fightin' fools of World War Two ace aviators and all-around adventurers -- the Blackhawks.

More specifically a certain period in their proud and lengthy history.

The... ahhhhhh... "super-hero" period.

Why is everyone backing away from me like that...? )

Okay... granted the exceedingly brief (i.e., little more than a year, all told; barely a blip on the ol' canonical radar, given how long this bunch has been be-bopping about the comics scene; nearly sixty years, as of this writing) "super-hero" chapter in the ongoing BLACKHAWK chronicles was Really, Truly, Deeply A-W-F-U-L Stuff.

The editorial Powers That Be at DC Comics -- in a wholly misguided attempt to somehow render the characters more au courant for the comics readership of the day, back in the superspy-happy days of the latter 60's -- took the simple, streamlined concept of the Blackhawks ("Seven top-notch aviators and fighting men, in conflict against the Nazi war machine"), and performed An Unnatural Act upon it.

The resulting comics were hideous. The resulting comics were unspeakable.

The resulting comics flat-out cracked me up.

Hey... what can I tell you, man? I'm the "target audience" that the creators of MYSTERY SCIENCE THEATRE 3000 dream about at night. )

That's why they're called guilty pleasures, gang. You're not s'posed to feel good about 'em, afterwards. )

The atrocity exhibition began with issue #228 of the (then-)monthly BLACKHAWK series an inauspiciously-packaged little pill so poisonous outright, the OVERSTREET COMIC BOOK PRICE GUIDE routinely marks it with a big, red "X" in its listings, along with the boldly-lettered warning "It Made Ray Charles Go BLIND."

The Blackhawks are in the midst of being "tested" by a super-duper- secret government agency cunningly acronym'd "G.E.O.R.G.E." (no explanation as to what the letters actually stood for, at any point along the proceedings; this was, you'll recall, during the heady days of James Bond/MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E. mania, nation-wide. Nobody really cared, man.), on the not- altogether-unreasonable assumption that a bunch of grown men limping into their late 40's/early 50's maybe -- just maybe, mind, now -- might not be capable of cutting the requisite cloak-and- dagger "mustard" of the dawning Atomic Age.

The 'hawks are summarily trounced by said robot, in particularly humiliating fashion. (The team's marksman, for example, is really blind in one eye [!!] The group strong man is -- sacred word of honor -- disabled duee to extreme ticklishness [!!!!] And so on, and so on, and yaddayaddayadda. The point being it's all as pointlessly arbitrary as it is unremittingly embarrassing.

G.E.O.R.G.E. wants to "de-commission" the group, seeing as how being able to whup up on big, trenchcoat-wearing killer robots is, after all, the daily sort of occurrence any self-respecting federal agent ought to be able to do with one hand tied behind their back. (Boy... they sure do train 'em right over in Accounts Receivable, down Washington way; that's all I can say. And that runty geek intern, manning the office copy machine...? Murder One, bay-beeee -- !)

The team's head honcho, however -- old "Blackhawk" his own bad self -- manages to wheedle the following concession from theircipher-ish taskmasters given one week -- a mere seven days, mind -- the aging aviators can and will revamp and retool themselves for the brave new world of the Cold War. Guaranteed.
... and if they don't (or can't) -- then it's Shuffleboard City for the team entire.

(SIDE NOTE the 'hawks also have a good word or three put in on their collective behalf by four members of the Justice League [see pictures, accompanying] Superman, the Batman, Green Lantern and the Flash. Check out that cah-razy "Rockettes"-style synchronization as they smugly stroll off into the D.C. sunset together! "Ohhhhhhhhhh, girls... just wanna have fuuuunnnnnnnnnnn -- !")

I'll try not to keep you in tortuous suspense the wrinkled warbirds dive head-first into the entire spandex-and-super-powers "bit" with a gusto as lusty as it is grotesquely misdirected. Take a quick gander at the cover, accompanying... and see for yourselves precisely why only allowing yourself a single calendar week to score some decent haberdashery (and come up with even a halfway respectable "code name") leads, inevitably to folly; ridicule; and ruin.

I know... I know. And here you thought the Space Canine Patrol Agents looked bloody ridiculous

Hogan's Alley-style, from left to right Chuck (the guy in the blue pajamas, with the cute li'l pink earsies all over him) is "the Listener" the team's communications commando. Olaf (the one who looks like a gigantic salt shaker) is "the Leaper" he has super-bouncy shoes. Hendrickson -- the half-blind old gun coot, as you'll recall -- is "the Weapons Master he's solved that pesky "aiming" problem by packing an infinitely larger and more dangerous hand cannon.

The guy tarted up to look like an out-of-work Transformer is Stan -- a.k.a., "the Golden Centurion" he can coat anything with "quick-hardening liquid gold!" His job, apparently, is to throw the entire U.S. economy out of whack. French "lover boy" -type Andre has assumed the appellation of "M'sieu Machine" basically, a glorified grease monkey and chauffeur. And the renegade maitre d'hotel is Chop-Chop, who (foolishly, perhaps) misinterpreted Blackhawk's instructions to the extent that he actually went out and got himself a For Real, No Foolin' super-power -- enlarged, super-strong hands. Hence "Dr. Hands." Thank God he didn't stumble across any super-scientific means by which one could enhance one's prostate.

Blackhawk, of course, was exempted from having to doll himself up like the super-hero equivalent of a rodeo clown, on the not-altogether- unreasonable grounds that he was, after all, The Head Cheese. In the course of the adventures (I won't contest the term if you won't) which followed during this period, the noted Leader of Men would stand around pointing at various and sundry nefarious menaces, shouting out such helpful instructions as "Blackhawks! Attack -- !!" Talk about your "action figures"; this guy was the original inaction figure. I'm only sayin', is all

Here's a typical "New Era" BLACKHAWK adventure for you our Boys of Late, Late Summer are handed the assignment of tracking down a notorious "femme fatale"-type enemy espionage agent -- a solo mission (semingly) tailor-made for the rakish, come-with-me- to-zee-Cazbah Andre... right?

Anyone nodding their heads and muttering "you betcha, py yimminy!" obviously hasn't been paying close attention, to this point. This was, remember, the "Blackhawks-As-Tired- Old-Frauds" period of DC history; no humiliation, therefore, was too unlikely or extreme. It turns out that -- I kid you not -- the team's resident lothario is actually terrified of women; ALL women. (Seven guys... all living on an island, together... leather pants. I hope you're not going to make me spell things out, here. Think of the children who might be visiting this site.)

Anyway the fearful Frenchman gets captured by the sloe-eyed Soviet, and placed before an all-femme firing squad , with said markswomen all being suitably "hot pants"d in honor of the occasion. (No, no... the stories weren't being penned by Kraft-Ebbing, at this point. That came later.)

His Loyal Chums come "haaaaawwwww-KAAAAAA"ing to the rescue, and Andre -- noticing that the villainous vixen has turned ashapely heel and taken flight -- bolts off in sweaty, hope-I don't- actually-catch-her pursuit. Wotta guy.

As it turns out, however "what -- a guy?" would be the more "apt" exclamation, under the circumstances. Seems that our Bolshevik brazen is, in actuality... well... "butch," really. (In comparison to Andre, I mean.)

His/her make-up melting away, Andre feels himself feelin' all, y'know, manly an' stuff, once more (boy... did the guy writing these things have "issues," here, or what -- ?), and proceeds to bust up the busty baddie. As his fellows arrive, moments later -- with the bare-chested Andre toting the unconscious "miss" over one dimpled shoulder -- the moustached mister proudly exhults "Scare bleu! My friends... I feel like zee real man, once again!"

Seven guys. One island. Leather pants. "Back rubs." Judy Garland records, blaring at all hours of the night. The "Comics Code Authority" is a hollow fraud, I tell you.

Finally some mention simply must be made, re the, ahhh, "romantic life" of The Big Hawkmeister his own dark, brooding, Old Spice'd self. This, however, requires some background explication regarding the "Zinda" situation.

The leather micro-mini'd woman known as "Zinda" -- dba, "Lady Blackhawk" -- was (from all indications) the Regular Saturday Night Thang for the Blackhawks' boss of bosses. [See pictures, above and below].

Her primary functions, whenever "working" alongside the rest of the team -- Zinda didn't live on Blackhawk Island, by the way.Nope. Uh-uh. Not that I'd ever dream of spinning psycho- sexual straw into gold over that, of course -- seemed to consist mainly of Getting Kidnapped; Getting Hysterical; Getting Slapped After Getting Hysterical; and (chastely) lip-wrasslin' with The Big HawkKahuna.

Y'know... one of the big, unresolved "issues" constantly being debated back and forth, in comics readership circles, is howcum more, y'know, WOMEN don't read super-hero comic books...?

Seven guys. One island. "Carmen Miranda" dress-up nights. Mandatory group "responsive readings" from The Collected Works of Oscar Wilde.

I'm. Just. Sayin'.

GOLDEN AGE DC HEROES in the Silver Age
PAGE ONE (Flash, Green Lantern, Dr. Fate and Hourman)
PAGE TWO (Starman, Black Canary, Spectre and Vigilante)

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