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Page A3 The Joan De Arc Crusader / Wednesday, August 24, 2011 Front Page A1 / Editorials A2 / Crossword A4
Don’t go away, Mad By J. Bueker If ever asked to sum up the fundamental credo of the baby boomers with one brief popular catch phrase, I will probably be inclined first to suggest, “What, me worry?” Mad Magazine wielded such a deeply profound influence over the minds of American youth back in the ‘50s and’ 60s that it’s difficult to properly assess, even in hindsight. Far more than a mere humor magazine, Mad sized up the overall cultural landscape of mid-century America and then managed to change it forever. Here was literature that significantly altered our very notions of what constitutes hilarity. Yet Mad did even more than this; it established its own warped cultural ethos and methodically enticed its audience to embrace it. And we happily complied. In the current age of extreme electronic media saturation, it’s not so easy to conceive of a single magazine so thoroughly permeating the consciousness of a generation. Nothing remotely like that is even possible now, just a few decades later. So, what to make of it all? How did this inane little publication succeed so brilliantly in effecting its formidable cultural influence? A few obvious points can be raised. First of all, Mad was genuinely subversive. It took delight in ridiculing the Establishment across the board, from Madison Avenue to Washington DC to Hollywood and beyond. Nothing was sacred and nothing exempt from the derision of these people, and kids just love that sort of thing. Crucially, the ridicule was extended to the magazine itself -- Mad was consistently and endearingly self-deprecating. Secondly, the art work in Mad is timeless. From Dave Berg’s superbly constructed “The Lighter Side” installments to Sergio Aragone’s tiny cartoons scattered throughout the margins and Antonio Prohias’s simplistic yet extraordinary “Spy vs. Spy,” the artists at Mad wove an unforgettable universe of imagery that brilliantly depicted the humorous notions being expressed. Don Martin’s wonderfully bizarre little storyboards alone secured a permanent place for Mad in the American cultural pantheon. But here, it seems to me, was the ultimate secret of the magazine’s singular success: Mad possessed the astounding ability to simultaneously convey both utter contempt and genuine fondness for the popular culture it skewered on it pages, month in and month out. When the magazine poked merciless fun at “The Man from U.N.C.L.E.” with the wonderfully conceived satire “The Man from A.U.N.T.I.E.” in 1965, no one enjoyed it more than devoted fans of the TV program. The Mad writers astutely identified the show’s most charming and distinctive characteristics and then vividly rendered them as the focus of their good-natured belittlement. The reader was left with the unmistakable impression that these same writers calling the show ridiculous and idiotic were themselves big fans of Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. Originally conceived in the early ‘50s by editor Harvey Kurtzman and publisher William Gaines, Mad Magazine actually started life as a comic book. Instead of superheroes or romance yarns however, Mad was offering up groundbreaking parodies of the ever-expanding mass media and political culture, and this in the midst of the raging Cold War. Of course, the stark irony is that Mad became so overwhelmingly adept at satirizing popular American culture that it inevitably became an indispensable part of the same. Mad slowly seeped into my consciousness as the mid-‘60s unfolded, and then came the abrupt epiphany. One afternoon I was hanging around at the Neff’s house over on Willow Ave. when I happened to notice an “Alfred E. Newman for President” poster hanging conspicuously on the wall of their garage; turns out Mr. Neff was a big fan. Up to this point, I had only been vaguely aware of the magazine’s existence, but the revelation that Mad’s goofy mascot was running as a candidate for President of the United States of America captured my imagination and instantaneously expanded my interest in the magazine. In those early years on Joan De Arc, there was but a single local outlet for purchasing a copy of Mad: the A.J. Bayless at Westown Shopping City. Few of my childhood memories surpass the simple joy of riding my bike up to Bayless on a warm summer morning to purchase the latest issue of Mad. Naturally, I was hardly alone in this infatuation among my contemporaries; copies of Mad were routinely confiscated in Sahuaro School classrooms in the 1960s, and you know many of those seized copies were then taken home and enjoyed by the Sahuaro teachers and administrators. Of course when purchasing a copy of Mad, it was always a foolhardy, rookie mistake to simply grab the first copy off the stack and take it to the check-out line. Invariably, the “Fold-In” feature on the inside of this copy had already been folded-in by some schnook who didn’t want to plop down the 30 cents for the mag, but wanted to see the Fold-In folded in. And yes, I confess to doing this a few times myself over the years. Incidentally, Al Jaffe’s “Fold-In” is probably the single most famous gimmick that Mad ever dreamed up, and it was a masterstroke. Conceived as a silly satirical answer to the magazine fold-out made famous by publications like Playboy, the Fold-In first appeared in 1964 and was originally intended as a one-time gag. But its instant popularity with both readers and the Mad staff alike ensured its enduring presence on the inside back cover of the magazine. Amazingly, almost 50 years later, Jaffe’s Fold-In still occupies that space. By the early ‘60s, Mad was recycling its material on a semi-annual basis through the vehicle of the “Worst of Mad” special editions. Available at a pricey 50 cents, nearly double the cost of a regular issue, the “Worst of” editions offered bonus giveaways to help justify the exorbitant cost. Over the years, the magazine offered up such legendary bonuses as the Mad Zeppelin mobile, the Mad stencils, various Mad 45 rpm records and the famous Mad bumper sticker. I well remember some wiseacres taking their Mad bumper stickers, snipping off the “This is a Mad” bit, and then putting the things on their cars. It seemed exceedingly amusing at the time to see bumper stickers on the road that simply read “Bumper Sticker.” Eh, I guess you had to be there. Among the most popular of the Mad bonus giveaways were the Mad mischief stickers, issued in a series of “Worst of” editions in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. These full-color, pre-glued stickers delivered brief, sardonic Mad slogans and witticisms regarding current political issues and pop culture topics that readers could simply moisten and place in any conceivable location. Typical examples included “King Kong Died From Smog” and “Quarantine – Acne Breakout.” Ultimately of course, the stickers were a means of disseminating Mad’s influence far beyond the confines of the magazine’s pages. Sheer genius. Like many a youthful Mad aficionado, I was instantly delighted with the concept of the mischief sticker. The whole notion of silly and obnoxious little Mad messages appearing incongruently in improbable locations tickled me to no end, and the ideal spot for posting the things seemed perfectly obvious: the street light pole located directly across the Avenue from 3219. It was perfect. The light pole offered a solid, permanent surface in a public location that people would pass each day, and yet it stood a mere thirty feet from the Bueker front door. I could casually saunter across Joan De Arc, lick my selected sticker, attach it to the pole, and then discreetly withdraw to our house. Who would see the sticker first? What would be their reaction? Would they guess its source? What devilish fun. Unfortunately however, my neighbor and pal Mark Wells regarded the street light as part and parcel of his family’s sphere of influence, since it abutted the Wells’ property, and he was very territorial about this. Every time I stuck one of my hilarious Mad stickers up on the street light pole, it invariably vanished within hours, if not minutes. I quickly surmised the culprit in the matter and confronted him. Mark coolly informed me that there would be no Mad stickers or any other such contraband permitted on his street light pole, end of story. Incensed, I surveyed the situation. The only strategy I saw before me was to exploit my height advantage over my obstinate friend and post the stickers as high up on the pole as I could reach. Naturally, Mark always found a way to take them right back down again. I imagine he used a ladder or something. Killjoy! I finally gave up and found alternative locations around the neighborhood to post my little Mad stickers. Though many years have passed since the Mad Sticker-Street Light War of 1968, I still find myself strangely tempted to take a sticker out of one of my vintage copies of the magazine, drive to Joan De Arc Avenue, and slap the damn thing up on the old street light pole. After a year or two of absorbing the format, artwork and general mentality of Mad, I felt inspired to take a stab at creating my own personal version of the legendary magazine, complete with my own “Spy vs. Spy” cartoons and even my very own Fold-Ins. These projects were usually executed on the family room dining table in ink on notebook paper, and each issue required at least a good 20 or 30 minutes to execute. You just can’t rush that kind of artistry, you know.
Besides the monthly magazine, the other major form by which Mad reached us of course were the Signet paperback books. Like the “Worst of Mad” issues, the paperbacks were a remarkably effective vehicle for recycling old material to a new audience. The contents were carefully selected, lovingly assembled and then marketed with great skill, combining excellent cover art with clever titles that often played off the words “man” and “mad:” “Mad in Orbit,” “The Organizational Mad,” “Self-Made Mad.” The most memorable of the lot though may well have been “It’s a World, World, World, World Mad,” a take-off on the title of the popular Stanley Kramer film of the early ‘60s. The Mad paperbacks were quite simply inexhaustible. Even after you had thoroughly memorized the contents of one, the thing was still a lot of fun to read. It’s certainly arguable that the Mad paperback books are the greatest bathroom reading material ever devised by humankind. Unlike the conveniently available magazines however, the paperbacks were a bit more difficult to procure. They were available directly from the magazine via mail order, but the best source that I ever encountered was the wonderful Hunter’s Books at Chris-Town. The humor section at Hunter’s always contained an excellent selection of the Mad paperbacks neatly arranged in alphabetical order, and this was always my primary focus of interest whenever we visited the store. Ultimately, the Buekers managed to acquire virtually all the Mad paperbacks, especially after we started visiting thrift stores in the late ‘60s. As I was compiling this little ode to Mad Magazine, it occurred to me that the funniest group of people from my childhood – Wallace, Ladmo and Pat McMahon – must surely have been influenced by the publication to some extent. The Wallace show’s irreverent humor and satirical approach to popular culture (think Captain Super) seemed to share a kinship with the shenanigans that unfolded within the covers of Mad. There surely must have been some sort of symbiosis at play there, however remote. As it happens, I had recent occasion to speak with Mr. Wallace, and so I put it to him: Was “Wallace and Ladmo” influenced by Mad Magazine? I eagerly awaited the man’s response, as I fancied this to be an exceedingly interesting and insightful question that would elicit a fascinating and detailed response from the entertainment legend. Wallace stared thoughtfully into space for a moment and then simply replied, “I think everybody was.” Okay then, thanks Wall Boy. I realize I have been speaking of Mad here primarily in the past tense, but this is not meant as a criticism of the magazine in its present-day form. Mad Magazine continues to flourish, and although the art work and features are substantially less recognizable today from the Mad I grew up with, the magazine still remains reassuringly oppositional to everything our political class and popular culture hold dear. Long may it prosper. There can be little doubt that the Joan De Arc Crusader itself owes an enduring debt of gratitude to that “usual gang of idiots.” ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ JDA
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I was encouraged in this enterprise by neighbor
and patron of the arts Konnie Russell, herself a longtime fan of the magazine,
who would reward me with a dime or sometimes even a whole quarter whenever I
turned up on the Russell doorstep with the latest edition of my work to offer up
for her approval. That’s right, twenty-five big ones. I probably used the money
to buy new copies of Mad.