CSotD: Reading comics makes kids smarter
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I usually rely on Red and Rover for my nostalgic trips back into childhood, but today's Soup to Nutz, though the strip is ostensibly set in the present, brings up a memory from the Olden Days.
For those too young to know, comic books in them thar days were partially supported by advertising, and the advertisers were, almost without exception, a gang of conmen and thieves. I cannot remember a single time in which anyone showed me anything really cool and said, "I sent in for it from an ad in a comic book."
Comic books taught us a lot. They taught us that there are some real ripoff artists out there. And that your pals who make the comic books aren't gonna protect you from them.
We were on our own.
And let's make a distinction here: There were a lot of toys advertised on the back of cereal boxes (or on the cardboard between layers, in the case of Shredded Wheat) that were never as cool as you thought they were going to be.
But (with the exception of the doll my sister sent for that never arrived at all) they were simply disappointments. They didn't quite live up to the expectations of a little kid, but they had some value.
For instance, the cavalry bugle that was going to make me just like Rusty on Rin-Tin-Tin turned out to be plastic, but I remember my response, at eight years old, being, "Well, yeah, I guess it would be."
Disappointment but not disillusionment. And the fact that it was really a big, golden kazoo was actually a good thing because I could actually play it. Point to Shredded Wheat on that.
And I've heard similar reports about the baking powder submarines — not as exciting as expected, but you could have some fun with them.
By contrast, the stuff advertised in comic books was absolute crap.
Including giant monsters that turned out — just as portrayed here — to be posters where you could cut out the monster and then … um … throw it in the trash.
In my case, it was giant, realistic, inflatable dinosaurs.
Like Andy, I pictured something huge that I could ride around on. The dinosaurs turned out to be printed in black on random colored balloons, the long (maybe 18 inches?) kind with graduated circle-shapes like a snowman.
And to make them stand up, there were cardboard feet. Not dinosaur feet. A piece of cardboard with clown shoes printed on it, and a hole to stick the knot of the balloon through.
Even at that age, I knew I had been scammed. It's not the same as being disappointed.
My pal Stuart bought the "tank" that turned out to be a cardboard box and some stickers, but then, having not learned his lesson, he turned around and ordered the Civil War soldiers, who looked mighty realistic charging across the battlefield in the comic book but turned out to be nearly-two-dimensional blue or gray plastic junk that Cracker Jack would have been embarrassed to offer us.
(Wait. No, they wouldn't. But that's a separate rant.)
My sister often spoke of plans to sell enough Cloverine salve to get either a pony, a monkey or a tiny dog that fit in a cup, and I don't know if she just didn't get it together to send for the kit or our parents actively told her no, but my understanding is that, in order to get a real live pet of your very own, you would have to sell at least six cans of salve to every man, woman and child on the planet. Maybe seven.
It speaks to the utter lack of integrity of these bunco artists that Johnson Smith came across as having a modicum of decency.
Johnson Smith ran half-page or full-page ads offering a large variety of gags and magic tricks, some of which, like the X-Ray glasses, were ripoffs, some of which, like the magic tricks, were simply not as spectacular as you expected and some of which, like Joy Buzzers and Whoopee Cushions, actually worked, though the people they worked on never quite became as unglued as the people in the ad did.
A lot of those gags could be bought in person, and my father, knowing my fondness for such things, would stop in at gag shops while he was on the road, so that, without the risks of patronizing a comic book advertiser, I still had joy buzzers, fake vomit, ice cubes with flies in them and packs of gum that snapped on your finger when you took a stick.
(My elder son's first job was at such a shop — Zeezo's Magic Castle — where he learned a fair amount of good magic and even more about selling, performing and reading people. He was too young to be legally employed and took his pay in magic tricks, and, 25 years later, is still more likely to quote Zeezo on the topic of How Life Works than anyone else he has met in his storied career, with the possible exception of one of his Chiefs in the navy.)
Here's a short write up about Johnson Smith, from the site where I swiped this copy of one of their ads, which you will probably want to click on to make more legible:
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