Pottle Poses As Pirate; Puzzles Parents, Peers; Performs Proudly; from Raggedy Ann and Andy 34, 1949--story and art by John Stanley

I've only posted three of these "Peterkin Pottle" stories in almost two years of this blog. I kept thinking I'd run this one already, but a search of the site shows otherwise. (To quote the sketch comedy show Little Britain, "the computer says no.")


I was reminded about Pottle from a recent re-reading of several "Herbie" stories. "Herbie" is the Green Acres of comics--a happy accident that is great despite itself, and which slung some of the most avant-garde images of the 1960s into the mass market.


"Herbie," created by Richard Hughes, staff writer of the slightly sub-standard American Comics Group, and doggedly illustrated by Odgen Whitney, is one of the most genuinely odd mainstream comic book creations. John Stanley's "Peterkin Pottle" is a precursor to "Herbie." That said, I doubt Hughes ever saw the feature during its short run of 1949.


Both features star an overweight, bespectacled outcast who isn't much liked by his peers, parents or authority figures. Unlike Herbie Popnecker, Peterkin Pottle is just an ordinary child, with nothing extraordinary except for his over-active imagination. 


When the world's cruelty is too much to bear, Peterkin retreats into broad, Munchhausen-style daydreams. As I've noted here before, his fantasies are droll parodies of pop-culture cliches. They can be quite violent, with mass murder and nightmare imagery.


Stanley never quite got the hang of "Peterkin Pottle." It was too violent and bleak for kiddie comics, and Stanley vacillated between charming and harsh humor. This, the third story in the series, falls somewhere in the middle. While Pottle is obviously the kickball of the neighborhood boys, he has some security in his friendship with the girl, Pam. She is much harsher towards him in later stories, but here she is an accepting, indulgent figure.


Pirates figure in many of Stanley's Little Lulu and Tubby stories. They are usually figures of fantasy, unlike magicians, who occupy a similarly special berth in Stanley's comic-book universe. They are threatening, uncertain figures, guaranteed to bring chaos into the mix.

Stanley's covers for this series are all winners, despite the mixed lot of the stories they support.

This is a genuinely charming and funny story; it's the best of the seven "Pottles" published. It's ingeniously presented in two acts. The first is a rowdy comedy of child-life, with attention to linguistic detail, strong dialogue and good staging of events. I particularly like the third tier of page three. Its one-two stroke of the kid's smart-ass comment, and the bewilderment of Peterkin's mother, is dead-on.

The story's second episode is the most appealing of Peterkin's daydreams. Stanley frames it sublimely; a drowsy Pottle wanders through moving traffic, sleep-walking through a vivid, lightning-fast reduction of every Warner Brothers pirate movie of the 1940s.

Peterkin is Herbie-like in this fantasy sequence. He's much more egocentric, talkative and flashy than Herbie, but he is effortlessly capable of any feat he wishes to do. Like Herbie, Pottle is recognized and admired by everyone in the story--even the alleged villains.

Although Pottle performs another mass-slaughter (as in the frontier-drama burlesque of issue 33, which I'll run here eventually), his prissy tidiness in stacking the bodies like cordwood, and then wringing blood from his sword, leavens the grimness of the moment with welcome, absurd humor.

It's interesting that Pottle imagines "Lady Pam" as his greatest sea-faring foe ("a worthy opponent"), he holds her in high regard, as in real life. Pottle's affected pirate accent would be an imitation of actor Charles Laughton, I hope.

When Peterkin comes to, roused by honking horns, revving engines and a bellicose street cop, he isn't humiliated. He regains the cool of his fantasy alter-ego at story's end. His eccentric behavior is fully supported by real-life Pam. One hopes they both have a good time at the party.

Stanley's cartooning is a bit rushed here. The vigor adds great energy to the story, but it's still sloppy work. Perhaps Stanley had to work fast, as a rule. Even his 1960s cartooning, while much tighter, often looks like it was done PDQ.

When "Peterkin Pottle" works, as in this story, it's easy to see how good the basic concept was. It's too bad Stanley wasn't given time enough to develop the series--as he was with Thirteen Going On Eighteen. The latter was the luckiest break of his career. A good idea was given enough time to become great.

Had "Pottle" succeeded, Stanley's career path would have changed, and he might not have written his greatest Little Lulu stories. As it stands, "Pottle" is part misfire, part inspiration.

From Clyde Crashcup #1, 1963: Our Hero Phones It In, While Passing Time Before Final Spate of Comix Masterworks

In recent posts, we examined the curious horror comix of John Stanley. They were created as Dell struggled to reinvent itself as a viable force in the comix biz--despite Gold Key, the rechristened Western/K.K. Publications, having made off with all the licensed properties and the better artists.

Dell was left with John Stanley, a major talent who was equally at a crossroads. He'd found anonymous success writing, laying out and sometimes drawing other people's characters, for nearly 20 years.

In this time, Stanley had tried to create and sustain a couple of original comix creations (Peterkin Pottle, Jigger and Mooch) but saw them both quickly die.

It was evident that Stanley had the ability to do this on a larger, more successful scale, as his pal Walt Kelly had done with "Pogo Possum"-- a Dell Comics debut that was, by 1962, an internationally celebrated major syndicated newspaper comic strip.

With the gifted, expressive cartoonist Bill Williams, Stanley tried again, in 1961--right before the Dell/Gold Key rift-- with a picaresque urban sitcom, initially titled Around The Block, but soon changed to Dunc 'n' Loo.

This eight-issue series is among John Stanley's finest comix work. It is my personal favorite of all his original creations. If you're a new reader to this blog, use the Search function to find some selections from this series in earlier posts.

That the series lasted for eight quarterly issues says that it must have sold at least decently. Most unknown new titles failed after two or three issues.

On its own, Dell tried hard to regain its footing. They acquired new licensed properties, as quickly and randomly as they could sign the contracts. By this time, they had characters from the emergent limited-animation TV cartoons to consider.

They wisely acquired the entities of Ross Bagdasarian's popular The Alvin Show. Spin-offs of songwriter Bagdasarian's novely pop hits, under the alias of "David Seville," Alvin and his chipmunk brethren briefly tickled the collective American fancy in the early-to-mid 1960s.

The TV cartoons were of better quality than the thuggish output of Hanna-Barbera, but far less witty than Jay Ward's visually primitive Rocky and Bullwinkle.

Among The Alvin Show's sub-features was "Clyde Crashcup," an eccentric would-be inventor, whose shtick was inventing things that already existed. Talk about your cognitive bias issues! Here was a character concept seemingly tailored to Stanley's interests as a writer and comedian.

Crashcup is a sort of grown-up Tubby Tompkins or Peterkin Pottle. Despite the cautious whisperings of his voice-of-reason sidekick, Leonardo, Clyde refuses to accept that his ideas have already been thought out and seen to fruition. Time and again, he is driven to do things the hard way, just to prove that he can do it.

Dell bravely launched a Clyde Crashcup title, which lasted five issues, and entrusted it to Stanley. The end results seem a bit off to me. Perhaps Stanley was still dispirited from the debacle of his 1962 horror comix.

Dunc 'n' Loo's final issue was yet to be published when the first Crashcup appeared. Was the writing on the wall for Stanley's superb original concept? Whatever the reason, Stanley's Creatometer is set to "MEDIUM" here.

The three stories presented here, from the title's debut issue, teem with Stanley themes and -isms. Missing is the dynamic drive, the bustling, roughhousing urban wit that distinguishes Stanley's best work of the late 1950s and early 1960s.

Clyde Crashcup Invents The Cow










Clyde Crashcup Invents The Desert Island







Clyde Crashcup Invents The Broom







I have no data to back this up, but I begin to suspect that the villain of the piece may be editor L. B. Cole. He edited the horror comix and other Stanley-penned projects from Dell's awkward transitional era.

Cole's editorial hand pressed down hard on Stanley. This must have frustrated the author. With Western, Stanley was given free berth to flex his comedic muscles and write dense, rich stories, usually full of melancholy and macabre themes. Little Lulu was among Dell/Western's bread and butter titles. They weren't about to mess with a winning formula.

[SIDEBAR: I'm still uncertain why Stanley left Little Lulu in 1959. This is where comix history fails us. No one thought to ask these questions while Stanley was still around to answer them. If Stanley was sick of writing LL, why did he immediately take over Nancy and Sluggo, which was basically Lulu Redux, and write it with such vigor and commitment for the next few years?

Did Dell's editors feel that Lulu was, by 1959, a finely-oiled comix machine that any writer and artist could take over? Stanley's successors tried their hardest to ape his writing, comedic style, timing and comix vocabulary. Their work was clearly patterned on what Stanley did with the series, in the 14 years he ran it.

I wish I knew the answer. End of sidebar.]

Staples of Stanley storytelling-- cramped urban environs, pirates, witches, invasive landlords, cognitive biases, frenzied physical action, SFX in balloons, balloons with motile tales, vivid onomatopoeia--abound in these comix. Yet the end results seem diluted and dis-spirited. Perhaps Cole's hand was too heavy for Stanley's work. Perhaps this was just a paycheck project, done without much TLC.

These remain appealing stories--of much higher quality than Dell's other creators--but they seem tame and timid, in the wake of Dunc 'n Loo, and following Stanley's bravura run on Nancy and Sluggo. One can see glimmers of Stanley's cartooning style in some of the character poses--including the Little Lulu perennial of upraised, smiling faces:



The cow in the first story is unmistakably Stanley's design. Compare it to the animals in his later Choo-Choo Charlie stories (see link elsewhere amongst the posts.)

The witch at the end of "Broom" is a double for Lulu's Witch Hazel:



I have a feeling that Stanley's scripts, as turned in, were a lot more vivid and appealing than the pale finished stories. I am still exploring the early post-rift Dell titles for other possible Stanley material. These comix are works of corporate turmoil and indifference--confused moves from a vulnerable former giant of the comix world. While clouded beneath heavy editorial hands, there may be more undiscovered works of John Stanley hiding in their forgotten pages.

Tubby #1: the Notorious "Captain Yo-Yo"

Before I start today's post: a humble note of thanks to the folks who made thoughtful and immensely helpful donations to this blog, as we faced our darkest hour. I couldn't have made it without your help.

I'm happy to report that the worst appears to be over, and that a light is visible at the end of the tunnel--an opening not too far away.

Thank you so very much. I feel like celebrating, so here's another mega-long post: 36 pages of wall-to-wall comix!

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The debut issue of Tubby has an undeserved bad rep in certain corners of Comixville.

For those of us who treasure the subconscious, darker-hued realms of Stanleyland, "Captain Yo-Yo" is a major moment in John Stanley's career.

It was, by far, the most unusual story Stanley had written, with the "Lulu" universe, that had been published. ("The Bogeyman," slated for a 1950 issue ofLulu, but cut due to its intensely nightmarish themes and narrative, would take top honors, had Dell been gutsy enough to publish it.)

The bulk of Stanley's Little Lulu stories have their feet firmly planted on the ground of comix reality. We could exist in this world. (It would be fascinating to see how any of us would be drawn by Irving Tripp.)

Stanley segregated fantasy themes to a regular series of fairy-tales, usually related by Lulu to bratty Ritalin poster-child Alvin.*** [see post-script below]

In these stories, Stanley let his imagination--and his dark side--run rampant. Chaotic, troubling events fill these stories. It's acceptable because these images and narratives come from Lulu's mind, as she improvises these little masterpieces to her largely unappreciative, usually captive audience of one.

Stanley had an affinity for themes of fantasy, horror, science-fiction and the macabre. One-shot stories such as the Andy Panda tale "The Mighty Mites" and the Oswald Rabbit "last flower"/"don't laugh" story (both found elsewhere on this blog) are truly fantastic stories that take place in comix "reality."

Lulu might daydream wild stories, and Tubby might exaggerate the truth in his ego-maniacal braggadocio, but the majority of Stanley's writing for Little Lulu wisely stayed put on a recognizable workaday world.

Tubby represented a clean break from the strictures of the Lulu universe. For one thing, Lulu is never seen in Tub's book.

This sprang from the need for separate "Tubby" stories, sans Lulu, in her monthly title, to qualify for bulk postage under the post office's requirements that periodicals have more than one feature per issue. (I'm greatly simplifying this information, but it's also the reason for those joyless text fillers in 1940s comic books--the ones that read like they were written at gunpoint, during a hostage situation.)

From the start, Stanley used Tubby as a comix laboratory. He was clearly dedicated to the title. He did his first complete art-and-story comix since the late 1940s for issues 2 through 8 of the Tubby book. Given his workload, it's significant that he was moved to do the finished artwork. (It helped that Tub's book was a quarterly for most of its run.)

Here, Irving Tripp, in his only appearance in Tubby, does the book-length art. After Stanley stepped down as writer-artist, Lloyd White replaced him for the remainder of Stanley's time on the title.

White's artwork leaves me cold. He seems to have followed Stanley's layouts to the letter, but his rendering seems amateurish to me. The Tubby stories were an improvement over his work on the Walter Lantz features in New Funnies, circa 1946-8. His work looks flat and rough, and it fails to realize the possibilities of Stanley's writing.

It's great to see Tripp's crisp, precise work on this story. Now, without further adieu, here's "Captain Yo-Yo." Let's regroup after you've read this and ponder the many points of interest herein...






































If you've read Stanley's "Peterkin Pottle" stories, you'll recognize "Captain Yo-Yo" as a chip off that old block. As Pottle is an alienating, unappealing character (seemingly on purpose), it's rewarding to see this tall tale formula applied to the more complex, likable Tubby Tompkins.

Tubby, at story's start, is ostracized by his friends. As one, they turn on him and, as often happens in Pottle's stories, take harsh, excessive action against him. Pages 3 through 5 of this story have an intense sense of despair.

Tub slowly but surely freaks out as the enormity of his dilemma takes hold. He's been abandoned by his so-called friends, and left to apparently starve on Pine Tree Island. (One assumes that the distance from island to shore is too far for an overweight kid to safely swim.)

Tubby retreats to a well-known sanctuary: his imagination. Here is where Tubby's character informs the story. Unlike Peterkin Pottle's fantasies (wish-fulfillments of blanket acceptance and admiration, which usually entail mass slaughter of animal and human life), Tubby's daydreams have a moral compass.

Of course, Tubby can down a thick crowd of cut-throats with a few sly extensions of his yo-yo. He holds himself in high regard. But even an ego-maniac has his limits. It's telling that he balks at the concept of being a for-real pirate. Although he clearly loves the colorful tone of adventure in the pirate genre, the idea of pillaging, looting and killing as a way of life doesn't appeal to him.

And why should they? Tubby's desire is to be rightfully recognized as the great, hip, talented, cucumber-cool player he fancies himself. As such, he need not tire himself out committing criminal acts. As the master of all he surveys, the riches of the world ought to be brought to him--on a silver platter.

"Captain Yo-Yo," like Lulu's fairy tales, succeeds as both a vigorous burlesque of genre cliches, and as a detailed reflection of the inner world of its teller. The broadness, while often hilarious, fits a kid's excited, breathless involvement in the here-and-how of a made-up story.

Stanley really gets into the spirit of the story. It's salted with some of the most vigorous, epic action of his writing career. Some of the battle scenes have a Jack Kirby-ish vibe to them--they're over-the-top and brimming with energy.

Stanley has great fun with the vocabulary of comix itself. Priceless are his heightened sound effects, particularly the "SPLASHES!" that accompanies the pirates' mass exodus. I don't think a sound effect has ever been pluralized anywhere else in comix, past or present. Please, someone out there, pluralize your SFX--keep this brilliant quirk alive!

The early issues of Tubby are a fascinating anomaly in Stanley's career. These often book-length stories inhabit a nether reality, neither rooted in the recognizable everyday world of Lulu, or in a stylized, obvious fantasy setting. These vivid, detailed yet spare pieces of storytelling reach an apotheosis in "The Guest In The Ghost Hotel" (the first Stanley story posted on this blog).

That story seamlessly blurs the boundaries of "reality" and "dream" in Stanley's comix world. "Captain Yo-Yo," though born of abandonment and desolation, is a rich slice of Tubby's inner fantasy world. Reading the story is, in effect, seeing the world through Tubby's eyes.

Irving Tripp's art is a revelation here. It's among the very few moments in his Lulu tenure in which he gets to draw non-urban locales--and, at that, scenes of wild adventure. I particularly like his depictions of the sea. There is a genuine spark of life in his artwork here. It appears that he genuinely enjoyed drawing this unusual story.

The early Tubbys gave Stanley a welcome break from the real-world confines of Little Lulu. As such, they provided him with a welcome opportunity to rework the concepts of "Peterkin Pottle," and to wed these storytelling ideas to a genuinely rich and likable character.

As can be seen from other posts, here, of early Tubby material, Stanley was also afforded a rare opportunity to draw his own stories. It's a pity that the book went to a multi-story humor format by issue #10.

Stanley never returned to this tall-tale genre again, outside of the monthly Lulu fairy-tales. It was the comix' sad loss.

*** POST-SCRIPT: This, of course, fails to factor in the "little men from Mars" stories with Tubby. I'm not 100% convinced the little men aren't simply Tubby's wishful thinking, realized in some kind of waking dream. If they are, indeed, real in Tubby's fictive world, my theorizing is for naught.