Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

As a youth, I was not “into” comic books. The reason for this was two-fold.

First, the nearest store that had a rack of comic books was a two-mile walk from my house. Now, a two-mile walk wasn’t unusual for me—I spent all summer and many school-day afternoons with friends up in the hills, trekking miles from our suburban homes—and a gaggle of us would frequently walk or ride our bikes down to that store, but once there, the primary reason came into play: as a kid, I was never given an allowance.

I don’t know why my parents made this choice. Chores were something we all did without payment, and we weren’t given a weekly stipend just for breathing, so the distance to the shops and my lack of funds combined to ensure that I never got into comics (or bought a ton of candy). I knew who all of the superheroes were, of course (Iron Man was my favorite), but I never followed their heroic stories, knew the details of their super-lives, or could name any of their nemeses.

So, last week, when my neighbor asked if I wanted to read an old mid-’70s comic book he’d been given by a co-worker, my level of interest was minimal. However, in the age of quarantine, a minimal interest is often all that’s required, so I said sure, pass it along.

In fine socially-distanced form, my neighbor left it on my porch and I retrieved it.

It turned out to be the premiere issue of MARVEL PREVIEW, published in 1975. It clocked in at 82 pages and carried the overwhelmingly cheesy title of “Man-Gods From Beyond the Stars.”

I shrugged. I smirked. This came out when I was in my junior year of high school, when I was reading Nine Princes in Amber and Ringworld. It might be a hoot.

After all, how bad could it be?

Answer: Very.

In truth, more than very. It could be excruciatingly bad. Abysmally bad. Embarrassingly bad. So bad it was almost a parody of itself.

It was, in point of fact, the worst piece of professionally published fiction I have ever read. Not among the worst.

The. Worst.

And yet, I had a grand time reading it.

The prose was a tortured, bruised purple. The grammar was twisted and at times nearly opaque. The hand-lettering used bold font on specific words, like when A.A. Milne (and certain tweet-loving politicians) capitalize Important Words so that we know they are Important Words, only in this case words were bolded seemingly at random. The text was sprinkled with typos (it’s for its), malaprops (curving for carving), and oxymorons (what the hell is “a wooded savanna?”). And to put a cherry on top of that crap sundae, the content was all related to (or inspired by) the writings of Erich von Däniken, author of Chariots of the Gods? and other pseudo-science claptrap.

Now, I have read worse fiction. I’ve read slush for magazines and have participated in round-table readings of “The Eye of Argon,” but this was Marvel. This was Stan effing Lee (or at least, that’s what it said on the title page). Was this the quality of writing I would have found in those comic books, had I been given the funds to buy them?

Maybe my parents, by not giving me an allowance, had done me a favor. I might have been scarred for life.

My neighbor doesn’t want it back, so I’m sending it along to my friend. With his degree in literature, I’m sure he will enjoy the experience.

k