Need help understanding color theory? This should help.

I’m a fan of the work of the late artist Mike Sekowsky, whose career in comics spanned the 1940’s through the 1970’s, including such notable DC comics as Justice League of America, Metal Men, Wonder Woman, Brave and the Bold, and assorted science fiction comics. If you read DC comics at all in those years, it was practically impossible to miss his work — moreso because his style was so recognizable.

Except, it seems, by DC Comics. Because when you go to this page, you’ll discover that DC is attributing all his work to “Josephine” Sekowsky.

Sekowsky had a reputation for being difficult. But I don’t believe he had a reputation for gender confusion. (And perhaps the opposite; see the above image — which also helps to reveal why so many of us remember his drawings of Wonder Woman and Black Canary.) So it looks like DC has accidentally misattributed all of his work, which is a terrible shame. Especially toward someone who put such an indelible stamp on so much of their history.

(The above images are also not by Josephine Sekowsky.)

Here are 21 reasons Alfred Pennyworth is far cooler than you thought.

In my adolescence, I was fortunate to meet the right person at the right time. I’m speaking of my mentor, Rich Roesberg.

There’s no one who has made a greater influence on my cultural life.

Growing up in the Pine Barrens and surrounding environs of southern New Jersey made artistic and intellectual engagement hard to come by. People who, last decade, abhorred the encroachment of big-box chain bookstores, to the supposed detriment of small independent bookshops, had no idea what it was like growing up in a place with no bookstore nearby. If there had been a Borders bookstore anywhere near me when I was growing up, it would have been a godsend.

As it was, though, I had my own godsend. One day my mother went into a Hallmark greeting-card store in a strip mall to buy some cards. The store also carried books — in fact, it was called Blatt’s Books — and I found in the back some secondhand comic-books. What I discovered when I took them to the front counter was the assistant manager, an elder in his late 20’s named Rich Roesberg, and a conversation about comic books that over the 35+ years since then has broadened into art, music, politics, and much, much more. “Uncle Rich,” as my gang and I started calling him, became my oasis.

Here’s an abbreviated list of what I found through him during my impressionable adolescent years:

1. A deep admiration for Brian Wilson, Van Dyke Parks and the Beach Boys
2. An appreciation for dada and surrealism
3. R. Crumb
4. John Cage
5. Cut-up (Brion Gysin’s technique)
6. Soupy Sales
7. The Bonzo Dog Doodah Band
8. Jean Shepherd
9. Bob & Ray
10. Steve Ditko (it was Roesberg who made me see how wonderful his work is)
11. Bill Irwin
12. Ernie Kovacs
13. Steve Allen
14. Uncle Floyd
15. Charles Bukowski
16. John Fante
17. Alfred Jarry
18. William S. Burroughs

I’m now back in town and not going anywhere for five weeks. (Until Comic-Con!)

I was in Omaha, NE from May 24 through June 2nd having an absolutely great time once again at the Great Plains Theatre Conference. I taught a couple of workshops, served as a panelist reviewing several plays, and saw several very, very good plays. And did things like go in and out of Iowa five times in one night (and morning) with some friends, but that’s a separate story.

I also got to sample one of the local 24 Hour Fitness centers. When I joined 24 Hour Fitness last December, I bought the nation-wide option so I could use a club wherever I was. Here’s what I’ve started to learn:  They’re highly similar, but oddly different. (Kind of like the Earth-1 and Earth-2 DC heroes. Google it.) Their hours are the same — 24 hours a day, which works with my schedule — but slight differences add up. In this case, I went equipped with everything I’d need:  workout clothes, swimsuit, Dopp kit stuffed with grooming items, lock and key, workout regimens from my trainer. But when I signed in they didn’t offer me a towel. I said, “Towel?” The girl and the guy working the counter looked at me funny, then the guy said, “You want paper towels?” Turns out that this 24 Hour Fitness doesn’t give you a towel. How was I to know that? The ones in LA do. My only recourse:  They would sell me a towel, about the size of a large dishrag and helpfully embroidered with 24 HOUR FITNESS, for eight bucks. I bought one. This being Omaha, they must store them with the cattle, because it had a definite bovine aroma to it. I was still glad to have it, and glad for the workouts I got at this gym while I was there.

From Omaha, I was supposed to head East — to see family and friends in southern New Jersey, spend a day in Philadelphia with friends and clients, and go to New York to meet with some people and see a couple of shows. But my dog had a mishap that required surgery, so I flew back to care for her through her recovery. We all know I love this dog. If you’ve ever wondered what price you can put on such love, perhaps this will help:  I love her more than $2500. Mind you, I would love to have that $2500 as well. But that wasn’t possible. She had better be really really grateful for the rest of her dog days.

With the Eastern trip canceled, and my 21-year-old son unexpectedly in town, I threw an impromptu dinner party. He and I and two of my friends had dinner, then watched “American Pickers” (a show I’ve developed an odd interest in), then watched “To Have and to Have Not.” The latter was surprisingly dull; I’m definitely of the “Have Not” school. Whatever charms Bogart theoretically brought to the screen, I didn’t see them showing up here, and I was less enchanted with Bacall than history would have me be. (I did think that Walter Brennan was great; he steals every scene.) The script was lackluster and the action plodding. I remember the Hemingway novel far more fondly than this movie; online research reveals that the film’s story is greatly changed from that of the book and, besides, the movie doesn’t give you Hemingway’s prose. (Which is the reason I’ve had zero interest in seeing the latest film adaptation of “The Great Gatsby,” a story that demands to be read.)

I also took a night and went to see “The Iceman,” an independent film starring Michael Shannon and Winona Ryder, about a well-known hitman from New Jersey. (Well, his story is well-known in New Jersey. And probably not so unusual.) My son and I were running a little late (more like on-time), so we charged up to the box office, where I said, “Did ‘The Iceman’ starteth?” Not much of a response from the ticketing guy, which surprised me, this being an upscale independent film house (owned by Robert Redford, so you know it’s smart and classy) that tends to hire introspective intellectuals with middling customer-service skills. I made another lame pun and then finally said, ” ‘The Iceman’ — ‘The Iceman Cometh’ ?” No acknowledgement from him or from my son. I guess winning three Pulitzer prizes and the Nobel prize for literature doesn’t get you much in the way of lasting fame.

I also went to see my own show a couple of times, and went into my office off and on, where everything was humming along nicely without me (although my partner says one of our clients asked, “Does Lee still work here?”), and then the past four days I was down in San Diego and Carlsbad for a business conference. The last two nights I stayed at the resort spa where the conference was held; the night before the start of the event, I stayed in downtown San Diego at one of the hotels my friends and I frequent for Comic-Con stays. During Comic-Con, we jam seven of us into this suite and split the cost. (More money for comic books this way. And drinks.) The suite probably runs… $279 a night? More? Here’s what I got it for off-Comic-Con season, using an app called Hotel Tonight:  76 bucks, tax included, out the door. So there I was, with a two-room suite, no six other guys I’d have to step over, paying about what my share would be if they were there. I felt like calling every one of them and saying, “Guess where I am? OK — guess how much I’m paying?!?!?!”

The next morning I got what I think is one of the best haircuts I’ve ever had, from a girl named Crystal at the Floyd’s 99 in downtown San Diego. She asked what I did for a living, and I told her I own a marketing firm, and just when I was getting ready to say that maybe from here on out I’d be driving down to San Diego every month for my haircut, she hit me up for a job. Turns out she’s always wanted to work in marketing. Which, of course, is why she’s cutting hair. And not just cutting hair — doing a fabulous job of it, and being only the latest in four generations of barbers in her family. Clearly, haircutting is in her blood — but no, she wants to come learn how to write copy. She asked if I’d look at her resume, and I said sure — but it’s been four days and she still hasn’t emailed me, so it’s a fair bet she’ll still be cutting hair for a while.

Re the conference, which was great fun and greatly useful, I thought I’d share this line, from one of the speakers:  ” ‘Awfulizing’ is imagining the worst from things that haven’t even happened — and then suffering the consequences.”

So don’t awfulize.

Good night.

DC Comics has a plan to “evolve” digital comic-book storytelling. Take a minute to read this, then come back here.

Here’s a claim that I flat-out don’t believe: that the “craft beer industry” is more important to the San Diego economy than Comic-Con. Here, read the piece for yourself, as found on the freelance entertainment site Examiner.com .

The article tabulates the craft beer industry as putting $299 million into the San Diego economy, while Comic-Con purportedly contributes only $180 million.

But lets look at this another way, in per-day revenue. If these figures are true — if — then craft beer, which is a year-round endeavor, brings in $819,000 a day. (And a lot of that is no doubt attributable to those sweaty fanboys in town for Comic-Con.) That’s not even enough for Lex Luthor’s latest battle suit. But comics, with their annual event lasting only five days, bring in an astounding $36 million per day. That’s Zuckerberg money.

So when it’s comics vs. snooty beer, the ales pale by comparison.

Hey, we got a room for this year’s Comic-Con!

It’s not downtown — it’s five miles away.

It’s not on the shuttle route (but it is on the trolley line).

And it isn’t a suite. But it IS a room (and not five guys sleeping in a parked van).

Now… I wonder if Len Wein has been able to find anything.

I just spent another frustrating 30 minutes trying to find a room for this year’s Comic-Con. Yes, it’s four-and-a-half months away, and there’s nothing available. The only — only — hotel I can find with any available room for four nights is seven miles from the convention and not on the shuttle route. What this would mean: a minimum 30-minute drive each way, crawling through blocked streets, to get to the Con. I may have to take it. The catch: They also want it paid in advance.

After attending this convention for 26 years, I was feeling pretty crummy about this situation. For years and years, my friends and I were able to book a suite with no problem — and we were being extra-considerate of the needs of others by stuffing seven guys into that one room. I have to admit to thinking that we deserved some sort of special consideration after the, well, billions of dollars we’ve dropped in San Diego over the years. The sequester is nothing compared to the impact of pulling us out of the San Diego economy. But then I found out that Len Wein couldn’t get a room. If the co-creator of Wolverine, Swamp Thing, the Human Target, Nightcrawler and Storm can’t get a room, who am I to complain?

What did I do in similar situations when I was a teenager? Just sleep on the floor through the all-night movie screenings. But now they come and roust you. At this point, I’d settle for a stable.

The photo above is of three delighted new subscribers to Mad magazine, courtesy of me. They arrived home from whatever it is they get up to during the day — who knows? could be anything — and found this surprise waiting for them alongside stacks of bills and mail appeals intended for their parents.

Who are those parents? They are my niece and her husband. Which makes these three my Great Nephews. Used in this way, though, the term may be misleading — I think they’re really pretty good, but “Great” seems like overstepping — so better to say that I’m their Great Uncle. (Much better.)

Why did I buy them an unsolicited subscription to Mad magazine? To ruin their youth, that’s why. Mad magazine has been a thumb in the eye to parents for 60 years and counting, and I’m proud to help continue that tradition. (That, plus I got a great deal on gift subscriptions.) Look again at the burst of excitement etched across their faces. I wish I could go back in time and do it again! It’s sure to be pandemonium in that house for quite some time.

It’s not just my niece I’m bedeviling with my mischief. Here’s a photo of another happy new subscriber, who was also surprised with a subscription that began on the same day:

Clearly, the derangement took hold immediately. (The leering Mexican demon masks in the background of the photo can’t hold a candle to this lunacy.) Here’s another shot from the same milieu, taken later that night:

No video games in sight. The Usual Gang of Idiots must be proud. Later, I saw this boy’s adolescent-anxiety-drenched sister reading this copy of the magazine, and then when I went looking for it later it was gone. I found out that my wife had taken it to read at work. Where does she work? She’s a respiratory therapist. At a hospital. (I have visions of patients dropping like flies while co-workers struggle to do the Mad Fold-In.) Seems everyone in our family is mad about Mad.