Don't ask me why... but: I've always been a sucker for this character.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Stranger, and/or his basic shtick: think of him as the "Greek-Chorus-In-Residence" of the DC Universe.

Any time a writer gathers together a massive enough number of spandexed "good guy"-types -- particularly in the instance of the increasingly tiresome (and creatively threadbare) multi-title "mega-crossover" storylines rendering each summer's bevy of comics all-but-incomprehensible, anew -- you generally have only but to wait for an exposition-laden page or two before he skulks his way into the midst of the assemblage, sonorously mouthing portents of Doom, Doom and More Doom. Honestly... you just can't help wanting to slap his little face off, sometimes.

Such being the case: it may surprise some of you, reading these words, to discover that not only did the Phantom Stranger once headline his own ongoing solo series... but: that said title was a pretty darned good read, throughout the greater length of its run.

Mind, now: the Stranger was (by simple reason of dramatic necessity) a far, far more "pro-active" character in the pages of his own mag than one might readily suppose, if all they'd seen of the character was the usual rote procession of "I bring you all grave warning" appearances in the occasional SUPERMAN story, or whatnot. The lead character explicated within the pages of THE PHANTOM STRANGER was anything but the Passive and Disinterested Spectator; this fellah was (in the parlance) "in town to kick butt and chew bubblegum"... and he was all out of bubblegum.

While the character enjoyed the attentions of several interesting DC scribes of the period (Michael Fleisher; Steve Skeates; Paul Levitz), it was the underrated (to my mind) Len Wein who mined most profitably of the character's potential storytelling "vein," as it were.

Working in tandem (chiefly) with the intelligent renderings of penciler Jim Aparo, Wein's portrayal of the Phantom Stranger was (at once) both mysterious and character-intensive. Much of the latter was achieved by means of treating the Stranger as a sort of black-suited "handball wall" (if you will), against which other, more naturally demonstrative characters could readily be lobbed in order to study the various ways they'd ricochet. Of these, the most interesting were "Tala" and "Terry Thirteen."

"Tala" was -- not to put too fine a point to it -- a succubus. ("Succubus": from the ancient Sanskrit, meaning "hose beast." I'm only sayin', is all.) If she'd had a high school yearbook photo, the caption underneath same would doubtless have read: "Most Likely To Squeeze a Man Like an Orange, In Some Dingy and Nameless Hotel Room, At Two In the A.M."

The Really, Really Shady Lady was (from all indications) motivated by nothing so much as to see just what glories, exactly, lay inviolate beneath the Stranger's Nehru turtleneck. He, in turn, would use the occasions of their not-very-infrequent meetings to look stern and resolute. The big dope.

"Terry Thirteen," on the other hand -- hard-bitten investigative journalist;scientific dabbler; and Professional Debunker, in general -- was an equine of a different hue altogether, re: any potentially Warm and Snuggly feelings towards the Stranger.

Jaunting about the country in pursuit of various and sundry bogus "hauntings" and similarly faked "psychic phenomena," Terry and his big, lovable dog "Scooby-Doo" would... oops. Wrong character. Sorry. Terry and his faithful, adoring wife kept running afoul of the Stranger whilst the latter was selflessly thwarting yet another incursion of demons from the netherworld, or somesuch.

The entertainment value, here, lay chiefly in that -- no matter what he saw, heard or had sitting astride his chest, all drooling anda-gibber -- Terry Thirteen would loudly and conffidently declare it all to be: "... a fake! A cheap parlor stunt! This so-called 'Phantom Stranger' is nothing but a costumed charlatan!" All of this, mind, after the Stranger had kept yet another multi-tentacled, extra-dimensional entity from crunching this bozo's head like a Tootsie Pop.

I'll tell you this much: if it'd been me wearing the black, snap-brimmed hat, man)