A Tribute to the of






As promised, here is the conclusion to my piece about the DC offices moving from New York to California a while back and the perspective of some of those who spent time laboring in the Big Apple for the iconic publisher in their own words.

First up is Liz Berube, who spent a number of years in the production department, primarily as a colorist. Liz passed away on January 15, 2021 and I surely enjoyed interviewing her and getting to know her:

So, DC is moving again.

Since 1961, I had been with them through 3 different offices. Now that I’m in Arizona… it won’t be possible to just run up there and wish them luck with the new move. (Something I would give much to be able to do…) I had a lot of friends and colleagues there - and it was something I looked forward to, several times a week. The work was secondary to the fabulous camaraderie and socialization, in my experience.

The first time I went to DC Comics … they were ensconced in a small office, downtown Manhattan. I had just finished a stint with Archie Comics. My Dad knew Jack Adler from some fund raising for “Bonds for Israel.” “Finally giving up on trying to talk me out of being an artist” - he suggested that I meet with Jack and see if there was any available work. Jack was a sweetheart...and we hit it off in minutes. He would assign books to color (between jobs as an Executive Receptionist, that was then my bread and butter) – and fairly soon... coloring was my bread and butter. I loved it. Jack loved it, because I could turn out 22 pages - overnight - if necessary.

All of us who remember the comic business back in the day - will also remember that everything was done by hand. It was not unusual for the penciler to be several weeks behind, or the inker behind…or the lettering…

It then fell to the colorist, to meet the two-week prior deadline. Always a night person … it was easy for me to do. (And I could listen to movies while I worked. One happy camper!!! )

By the time DC moved to the offices on Third Avenue I was an established figure there. It was much like being in college. I don’t think I can remember a happier time in my life. Jack Adler, Dick Giordano, Joe Orlando, Jules Schwartz, Carmine Infantino - gentlemen all. Tatjana Wood, Mike Grell. SO many wonderful artists and wonderful to be around. During this period, the “crazies” from MAD were coming and going, as well. This was a fabulous community of creative people - and I soaked it all in.

One fine day, Joe Orlando asked to draw a filler page for a Romance book. The rest is history.

I always got a big kick out of Carmine’s booming welcome as I got off the elevator: “Hey Legs!! How’s tricks? “

When he needed a new secretary - I found a friend (with great legs) who needed a job. Made in Heaven.

I very much enjoyed the offices on Fifth Avenue - which is the last I remember, mostly because it was so bright and airy...and because we were always lunching and cocktailing at the Top of the Sixes. I THINK I remember the address as 666 Fifth Avenue…but it’s been a lot of years.

I met Neal Adams during that time (and was to work for him at Continuity Graphics in the 80s) and, as one of my editors - I learned SO much from him. Bob Rozakis, Paul Levitz, Sal Amendola, Rick Bryant…and many whose names are up in my Mind Palace, somewhere ….

Here, I was offered the job of Editor for the failing Romance Line. (Which I thought could be turned into a girl’s “Cosmopolitan”.)

I’ve made some stupid decisions in my life…and turning that down was probably the second dumbest thing I’ve ever done. With a new status as single working mother - I thought only of the safety of my son and the very inadequate day care that was available.

Duh. I just draw pictures. It never occurred to me - that (on that salary) I could have hired someone to take care of David AT the office, with me. He was there with me all the time, anyway … and then we’d stop at F.A.O. Schwarz for a match box car after lunch at some little restaurant where I would teach him how to “tip” for service.

Well - I was told I was beautiful. I was told I was talented. No one ever said I was smart.

I miss you, DC … and all the wonderful creatives who are gone from us, but never forgotten.

To quote Cher: “If I Could Turn Back Time “….”

Martin Pasko was another prolific letter writer to DC and Julie Schwartz’s line of titles in particular. Before long he made the transition to professional, writing scripts for a number of years. His take on DC is good reading and he’d shared with me that it would be part of an upcoming memoir that I guess we’ll now never see as Marty left us on May 10, 2020. While I never enjoyed a formal interview with Marty, at least for the Sage, he assisted me on more than one assignment for BACK ISSUE and was invariably friendly and kind and once made my whole week by telling me he considered us both professionals. Take it away, Mr. Pasko:

To the extent that DC Comics ever "meant anything to New York," it did so, in my opinion, largely as the product of what Paul Levitz and his longtime boss, Jenette Kahn, made of DC. From the moment of her arrival, Jenette raised the city's consciousness about DC's presence -- and her own, in particular -- in Manhattan. For example, an article about WONDER WOMAN by Jenette's friend, Gloria Steinem, got the cover treatment from MS. magazine, with art supplied by DC, in what seemed like only the third week after Jenette arrived.

And I vaguely recall puff pieces about Jenette herself in several nationally-read "local" newspapers and magazines, like New York and the Times.

Jenette theoretically had a mandate to raise DC's public recognition to a higher level. This required a skill at which her alleged mentor, Stan Lee, excelled, taking Marvel to a much higher visibility in the late '60s and early '70s. But, in recalling Jenette's zeal to make herself "the public face of DC Comics," equivalent to what Stan was for Marvel at that time, I'm not sure, in retrospect, how broad a mandate she actually had.

Considering the push-back Jenette occasionally got from her superiors within Warner Communications, it wasn't always apparent that she had as much support for the initiative as she herself thought. But to the extent she did have a mandate, it was for trying to affect only the slightest shift in the parent company's attitude toward its comics-making meeskait.

Not only were there no mandates to publicize anything before Jenette's arrival, but, indeed, the exact opposite seemed true. The company's own attitude toward itself, and the way that this attitude was reflected in the company's choice of quarters and decor, was more like "Keep your head down and your eyes on the floor; keep quiet; and let's not embarrass ourselves by calling attention to ourselves."

I've known DC in seven of its dozen-or-so past offices, and, over the years, I'm happy to say I watched the company slowly stand up and hold its head high. And that has been reflected in the changes to the NY office environment over the years.

I first visited the offices as a small child during the BATMAN craze, in 1967. That was 575 Lexington Ave., the hoity-toity office building that had been the company's home since the early '50s. I remember that it was difficult to find: a nondescript, unimposing gray building that seemed like it was trying to hide from business rather than attract it. The directory in the lobby was small and difficult to read. If you didn't know that you were looking for National Periodical Publications, you would never know that somewhere in the building were the guys who edited and published SUPERMAN, BATMAN, et. al.

And, indeed, the low profile was deliberate. Thanks to people like Estes Kefauver and Dr. Fredric Wertham, comic books in the '50s were equated with juvenile delinquency and Communist "infiltration," in the anxious and somewhat hysterical climate of Cold War America. Much later, when I first went to work for DC in 1973, the possibly-apocryphal "company insider lore" had it that a precondition for getting the lease at 575 Lex was that the company had to formally change its name from "National Comics, Inc." to "National Periodical Publications, Inc.," so that the landlord wouldn't have to have the word "comics" on the directory.

I don't remember my one visit to this old office very well, except that it was nothing at all like what I'd imagined. The formal tour I took was conducted by the Production Manager. It was therefore efficiently staged, allowing a small horde of slack-jawed moppets, most accompanied by long-suffering mothers, to hear a well-rehearsed little speech about how comics are made -- replete with show-and-tell-level visual aids -- without slowing down production of the books. (As I recall, the DC switchboard was instructed to inform callers requesting tours that they were held once a week, on a certain day and at a certain time -- sharp! -- and would you like to reserve a place?)

In any event, I remember being so overwhelmed with excitement that I didn't know where to look. And that was before I was given, as a souvenir gift, a beautiful piece of original art from the BATMAN syndicated strip. (But not only "a" piece, but, by miraculous coincidence, the one strip out of all that had run to-date that I'd have chosen if I could: the black-and-white "daily" of Superman's first appearance in that strip.) Yes, believe it or not, back in that day, original art -- which was treated as DC's property in perpetuity and was NOT returned to the artists -- was used as giveaways to the kids on the tours. And whatever wasn't given away was shredded and tossed in the trash.

The other memory I have ... well, I can't tell you if there were framed comics pages or other decorative art on the walls. I don't remember any, but then, a lot of the kids were much bigger than me, and I couldn't see much from where I was in the deep crowd. I do vividly remember, though, being momentarily confused as I was jostled about by a shifting in the pre-teen swarm, as the voice of the Production Manager, Eddie Eisenberg, rang out: "Make way for Mr. Weisinger, please! Step aside!"

Another miracle moment: apparently with the help of some Production staffers who weren't averse to a little judicious moppet-handling, the small crowd parted like the Red Sea. Suddenly, I found myself in the first row of the subdivided group, just in time to see, close-up and personal, Mr. Superman Editor Supreme, Mort Weisinger -- looking disappointingly unlike I'd envisioned him.

As Weisinger strode across the Production floor on his way to his office, he seemed offended to have these kids in his way. Many years later I found out that it was because of a management manipulation: the editors had to come through the Production Dept. to get to their offices, so that someone in Production could keep track of their comings and goings, like human time clocks. (The editors didn't need to punch a clock, but the Production guys did. Resentments sometimes ran high, especially when Production needed an editor to approve something on his book that was late, but the editor was AWOL.) So, to Weisinger's mind, it was degrading enough to have to be subjected to the scrutiny of some secret spy in Production, but wading through a field of snot-noses to do it was adding insult to injury.

In any event, I watched, awestruck, as Weisinger moved through the passageway with an imperious gait, looking down disdainfully at the knee-highs with a contemptuous curl of the mouth, like the Pasha he seemed to think himself. (He was then a bit long in the tooth to get away with passing himself off as Moses.) It was this first impression of Weisinger that was why I laughed so hard at Roy Thomas's description of Weisinger as "looking like a malevolent toad" when I heard it some 10 or 15 years later.

The late Steve Ross's Kinney Corporation bought / merged with National Periodical Publications in 1968 to form Kinney National Services. NPP's new corporate parents moved the publisher into a not-too-new, but nevertheless newer and more modern, and more spacious and comfortable, suite of offices at 909 Third Ave. This less stuffy-seeming building was much closer to Marvel's offices than NPP had ever been, and in a part of the East Side that was, culturally and aesthetically, very attractive to the small army of young talent that was coming into the business at the time.

DC's proximity to Marvel made it easier than ever before for talent from the two companies to socialize in the area, rather than at home in the outer boroughs, or New Jersey and Connecticut. Or, for that matter, retreating into separate camps.

This was also the period in which all DC books -- even Weisinger's titles -- began to freely credit their talent. Soon it became common to see many artists and writers working for both companies, simultaneously, under their own names. It's difficult for today's younger readers to wrap their brains around what a breakthrough this was -- unless they know, for example, that when Gene Colan, who was steadily and remuneratively employed as an artist on DC's romance books, felt compelled to draw for Marvel under the pseudonym "Adam Austin," so as not to jeopardize his relationship with DC. Now, however, in 1968 (and largely thanks to Editorial Director Carmine Infantino), a nevertheless somewhat insular, but more closely-knit, creative community was being forged, in a new climate in which freelancers were allowed to be freelancers, and no one was treated as chattel "owned" by any one publisher.

It was these offices at 909 Third that I visited repeatedly while I was in high school, first to meet with Julius Schwartz (and then for dozens of times over the next few years), trying to sell him a story idea as he had invited me to do. It was there that I was first introduced to then-Editorial Director and day-to-day boss Carmine Infantino, as well as to Neal Adams, Dick Giordano, Marv Wolfman, Denny O'Neil, and many other pros. And if I wasn't coming up to DC as an aspiring writer, I'd be there as a publisher of, and writer for, a fanzine I'd co-created with my boyhood friend, the novelist and screenwriter Alan Brennert.

I never knew, on those visits, when I'd be a witness to some significant moment in the super heroes' lives on paper. For example, I was meeting with Julie one evening when Denny O'Neil delivered his final SUPERMAN script. Julie didn't know it was Denny's last script; Denny made the announcement of that as he dropped the manuscript in Julie's in-box. Denny went on at length about why he always had trouble getting into the character's mind, and found him too hard to write. I learned more about writing super heroes by listening to Denny's description of his struggles, and comparing them to my own thoughts about the character, than I ever could have taught myself on my own. So this trip to the DC offices was also a tremendous exercise in understanding my own work process.

This, by way of making the point that serious conversations about craft were common in the halls of those offices. They were the first quarters of the new DC, run by former artist Carmine Infantino, and fondly remembered by the talent of that era for their discrete "coffee room." It was the first of its kind ever at DC, with small dining tables, free coffee, and vending machines offering a variety of food for hungry staffers and freelancers who'd worked through lunch to meet a deadline.

Sometimes, after I'd been admitted from the reception area, I'd be asked to wait for Julie or whomever "in the coffee room." I'd sit in the corner and silently eavesdrop on the interaction between some of the best and brightest young talent in the business, like Berni Wrightson, Howard Chaykin, Mike Kaluta, Walt Simonson, Mike Friedrich, and Cary Bates, as they exchanged tips and showed off pages while waiting for their editors to call them in. What I learned in that electrifying creative environment would help me break into comics as a paid writer the summer after I graduated high school.

I first came to work for DC in the summer of 1973, as an Editorial Assistant, which is my best, job-description-based guess for an approximate title. Carmine's DC had been a transitional one -- the post-Kinney era -- but it was now still in transition. Kinney had bought the ailing Warner Bros.-Seven Arts Studio in Burbank and rechristened itself Warner Communications. Nevertheless, with company founder Jack Liebowitz still on the board of directors, these waning years of Carmine's administration were still more closely tied to How Things Were Done in Liebowitz's day. And so, my job, like many previous, similar ones held by guys a few years older than I, didn't have a title.

The offices I came to work in were in the brand-newly-rechristened Warner Communications Building at one end of Rockefeller Center: 75 Rockefeller Plaza. From Julie Schwartz's new office there, you could watch a dazzling array of TV and Broadway personalities, as well as many New York-based movie stars, going in and out of the restaurant 21, whose front door was easily visible from the north side of DC's 3rd floor.

One of the nicer "perks" of working at 75 Rock was the presence, on the ground floor, of a moderately-priced restaurant that served really good food. "Brew Burger" (or was it "Burger & Brew"?) was one of a chain of restaurants that is now long since defunct, I'm told. But at its 75 Rock location, it served dinner to dozens of comics pros every night of the week. And certain talent, who lived on the West Side but had to deliver material to Marvel a few blocks East, often stopped in at Brew Burger on the way home.

I had many delightful, fun dinners there with guys like Gerry Conway, Steve Skeates, and -- especially -- Steve Gerber, with whom I became fast friends. Over the most delicious Swiss burgers I've ever tasted, Steve and I worked out article ideas for CRAZY! magazine and helped each other brainstorm on our respective solo projects (which is how I contributed a few sight gags to HOWARD THE DUCK). In Los Angeles in the following decade, Steve and I would become not only closer friends but closer collaborators, on animated TV shows like THUNDARR THE BARBARIAN and MR. T. But I never found a place to meet with him as much as I liked that restaurant on the ground floor of 75 Rock.

In the upper floors at 75 Rock were the New York corporate headquarters of Warner Bros., whose executives frequently had meetings with the biggest stars in the business. This required me to feign New York-style nonchalance when encountering one of these in the elevator.

I remember one morning spotting the unmistakable figure of Robert Redford crowded into an elevator filled with office workers. He huddled in a corner with a ski cap pulled down over his ears and his collar turned up, looking like a man who was protesting being recognized too much. And indeed, no one paid him any attention, and by the time I got to my floor, he was starting to look disappointed if not irritated.

75 Rock had a penthouse suite, for the use of West Coast WB executives visiting Manhattan, with a spectacular 360-degree view of midtown. This became the location of three weeks of shooting on the notoriously awful EXORCIST II: THE HERETIC, much of it a night shoot. I was coming in to my day job as Julie's de-facto assistant every day while this was going on, and there were many mornings in the elevator when I had to step gingerly to keep an obviously-wasted Richard Burton from falling on me when the doors opened on the ground floor.

Later, returning to New York after college, I was, as one of the SUPERMAN writers, an unofficial consultant to the first two SUPERMAN films. It was at 75 Rock that I met Dick Donner and his script doctor, Tom Mankiewicz, as they camped out in a DC office to work out last-minute script changes to accommodate locations they'd just scouted in Manhattan.

It was at 75 Rock that I also met Christopher Reeve, fresh from having been cast as Superman. Chris didn't look like my idea of the character, and I can't imagine that that lanky, slender, sandy-haired fellow in the office was anyone else's image of the character at that time. But I could sense that Reeve wasn't going to let this, his big break, get anything but his most serious attention.

He furiously scribbled notes as he peppered Cary Bates and I with questions about Superman's interior life, respectfully prefacing almost every question with something like, "I'll have to be guided by what's in the script, of course, but..." This, as he simultaneously promised DC that he'd dye his hair blue-black and bulk up.

He did that and more, also taking the acting -- particularly the differentiation between Clark and Superman -- seriously. I told him about the tenor-to-basso profundo voice-switch thing that Bud Collyer had invented on radio, as well as the idea that Clark's "sphere of movement" and "significant gestures" were smaller than Superman's. Cary and I also discussed Nelson Bridwell's notion that Superman deliberately compressed his spine as Clark, to appear shorter than Superman.

Chris started nodding and scribbling furiously. And by that, I was personally gratified: I'd known that he was both experienced and well-trained as a stage actor (at Julliard, as a student of John Houseman's). I knew, too, that, because of my Theatre education at Northwestern, I could speak Reeve's language -- the language of acting classes and Stanislavsky -- even if it made Harrison nervous for fear that I'd embarrass the company. Later, I was gratified to see a scene, in SUPERMAN II, in which one of the very ideas I'd downloaded to Chris -- that Clark is "shorter" than Superman -- resulted in a visually-memorable scene.

I came to appreciate these experiences, in retrospect, when I moved to Hollywood in 1979 to break into TV. Some of what I lived to see at 75 Rock helped me, in LA, to learn quickly how to navigate the quirky world of dealing with celebrities.

75 Rock was also the office in which Jenette Kahn began her career with DC. She swept in, determined to change morale and modernize the company. Pointedly, she invoked the idea that "National Periodical Publications" was a shame-based fabrication, asserting instead that DC should be proud of what it was and what it did. So one of her first official acts was to formally change the company's name from National Periodical Publications to DC Comics.

But this was still the era of Warner Bros. being vaguely embarrassed by its super hero characters, even after the smashing success of the SUPERMAN feature film in 1978. At one point around this time, Jenette obtained permission to dress the two large showroom windows framing the main entrance to 75 Rock, which typically contained displays advertising various forthcoming WB films, with a display showcasing DC heroes in general, and the theatrically-triumphant Superman in particular, in merchandise and licensing. I remember the display being up for about only two weeks before "someone upstairs" asked that it be removed. One or other Warner Communications top-level executives complained because "it sends the wrong message in terms of image."

After I'd established myself as a working professional in comics, the DC office I had the least contact with was 666 Fifth Ave., to which DC moved c. 1980 or '81. By then, I'd moved to Los Angeles but was still writing for the comics. This new DC address was The Tischman Building -- something of a landmark for its jarringly unusual design: the facade alternated large windows with equal-sized panels of stainless steel which were adorned with hobnail-boot-like studs. From several books away, 666 Fifth looked like a giant cheese grater.

This office was famous for being the first that Jenette was allowed, in her sole discretion, to decorate. Thus, the space reflected her love for the kitschier aspects of comics tropes and design cliches. The offices, which had previously been so "tasteful" and sedate that Marvel personnel had begun to joke that DC's offices looked like those of "an insurance company," got a total makeover, courtesy of a design consultant who quickly thereafter became the first Director of DC's discrete Design Department, Neal Pozner. Kahn's and Pozner's flamboyant inventions included a wall paper, for the entire half-floor the company occupied, of a white and "electric yellow" check pattern, evoking DC's "Go-Go Checks" of 1966-'67. I used to joke that when I went I up there, I had to bring a seeing-eye dog with me.

Because my parents lived in New Jersey, I was happy and grateful to make tax-deductible business trips back to New York whenever I could, and also visit my family. What I remember best is that, because I was only visiting those offices once every four or five months, I got a dramatic sense of how fast Jenette and Paul were "growing" the company. The 666 Fifth offices were cramped to begin with, but as dozens of new hires came in, there seemed to be no clear idea of what to do with them. So, the half-floor that DC occupied at 666 Fifth became a daily re-enactment of the state room scene from The Marx Brothers' A Night At The Opera.

For some reason, the conference room, which was just off the main reception area, was at one point something of a storage closet for empty cardboard boxes and other detritus of constant move-ins. It also provided a table at which talent could work while waiting for their meeting. The first time I was there, in absent-minded professor mode, I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings as I sat down to last-minute proofread the manuscript I was delivering. A few minutes later, my peripheral vision told me someone was sitting next to me. Disconcertingly, when I turned to say "Hi," I discovered that it wasn't a person at all, but a life-sized ceramic sculpture of Clark Kent, seated in the chair as if participating in the meeting. Those offices overflowed with that kind of annoying kitsch, even as they overflowed with staff.

Within a year or two, staffers were working in alcoves that had originally been intended as closets, and at one end of the floor, the single Xerox machine used by the entire Editorial staff stood out in a hallway, because there was no other place to put it. I remember literally having to turn sideways to get past a guy using the machine in order to get to the office of my editor, Len Wein.

But, on one occasion, what was going on inside those offices, even if I wasn't in them much, literally saved my life. I'd accepted an assignment to write a PAC MAN comic book "pack-in" -- a custom comic -- that DC was producing for another Warner company, Atari. I'd booked a flight to New York, on their dime, and, on my own, arranged for a return flight with a four-hour layover in Chicago that would have allowed me to visit old school buddies and comics colleagues on my way back to LA. Well, Atari canceled and rescheduled the major meeting that was the main purpose of my trip, so I canceled my return flight and booked a later non-stop to LA, at DC's expense. That's what saved my life: the flight I canceled was the famous DC-10 out of Chicago that went belly-up when its engine mounts broke loose shortly after takeoff, and crashed outside the city, killing all aboard. So, whenever I get headaches remembering that checked wallpaper, I remind myself to be grateful instead.

By 1991, I'd joined Warner Bros. Animation as the first writer-story editor hire of new Supervising Producer, Alan Burnett, on BATMAN: THE ANIMATED SERIES. Paul Dini was not yet on the show; I was hired because I was both approvable to the network (Fox) and to DC, with whom I still had a great relationship. As I was starting there, DC announced its relocation to a new address at 1325 Ave. of the Americas (or, as most Manhattanites still insisted on calling it, Sixth Ave.). I visited those offices for the first time when Alan and I flew to New York to do some research in the DC print library for B:TAS.

I was struck by how much the company had grown. DC now occupied two floors in a large office building and would, before outgrowing these premises, occupy three. The print library that Alan and I spent two days in, with Denny O'Neil and the almost-equally-brilliant Kelly Puckett consulting, was amazing. It seemed to be about 75% larger, and better-stocked, with an impressive collection of rare comics (specifically, "custom" books, retail premiums, etc.) and a more complete collection of past DC publications in bound volumes, that was available to us at 75 Rock.

Three years later, an earthquake essentially destroyed my house, and my wife was so spooked by the quake that she was desperate to get out of LA. Luckily, DC had an opening for a Group Editor that I was eminently qualified for, and I got the job and moved back to New York in 1995. I was hired about a month before DC was scheduled to move into new quarters at 1700 Broadway -- the offices that were shut down this past April 10 after the staffers who elected to make the move to California had done so.

I could share with you here some of my memories of the more exciting moments of my ten years working in those offices. These would my consulting with Chris Nolan in his redevelopment of BATMAN (I was the guy who recommended that WB be shown Denny O'Neil's ten-pager, "The Man Who Falls" -- from a trade paperback of original stores called SECRET ORIGINS -- that WB green-lighted as the basis for the screenplay for BATMAN BEGINS). Or my thrill -- being both a political junkie and folk-rock fan -- in working with Judy Collins (a special adviser to UNICEF) and the US Department of Defense on a series of custom comics starring Superman, intended to educate the children of Bosnia-Herzegovina and Kosovo of the dangers of land mines. In the course of this, I was invited to a special ceremony at the White House, at which I met First Lady Hillary Clinton.

I could go into more of this, but it would only make this piece longer and perhaps more taxing to you, dear reader. But I cite the astonishingly high-profile projects that I was tasked to support in my last tour of duty at DC, not in a spirit of self-aggrandizement but, rather, by way of supporting my original premise: the DC Comics I worked for, in the building that became DC's last New York address, was a DC Comics that really had been made important to New York, as Paul Levitz contends.

Every time I stood at the elevator bank at 11700 Broadway, I saw something that affirmed that fact, and proved how far the company had come from the days when it was forced to be ashamed of itself on the directory at 575 Lexington Ave.:

A brass plaque, on the wall right beside the elevator buttons, announcing for all the world to see, that DC Comics was in the house.

The foregoing is an excerpt from Martin Pasko's forthcoming memoir, I'm On the Roof but They Can't Get Me Down, to be published in 2016. All contents thereof are © 2015 by Martin Pasko. All rights reserved. No portion of this text may be reproduced without express written consent of the author.

Marty, like a number of his contemporaries, made the move to California prior to his old employer, so who knows but what a reunion might have been in order at some future date.

I am deeply indebted to the creators like Liz and Marty, who were generous with their time and memories about their experiences with DC Comics.

I anticipate it will be business as usual when you next return to this space, dear readers, but sometimes it’s nice to shake things up a little and I hope you enjoyed the inputs from the people who helped build DC comics in days gone by.

June 15th is the appointed day to check in again for a new entry right here and you can be a part of it if you so choose. All you gotta do is reach out with your suggestions and who knows but what you might find it here. Gimme a holler at: professor_the@hotmail.com.

See you soon and…

Long live the Silver Age!



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