A "FELLA" NAMED KESSLER

All too often of late, I find myself writing about friends, acquaintances and celebrities I've met, known and worked with over the last half-century in the "passed" tense. It is an ironic  testament to the age of technology and near instantaneous communication, that it is often only after someone has left us that we pause and take time to acknowledge how much they affected and contributed to our life.

 

Not this time.

 

I'm going to tell you a little bit about a "fella" named GLENN KESSLER.

 

I met Glenn at the first meeting of what came to be known as the Houston Comic Collectors' Association in July, 1966. Local collectors Marc Schooley and Roy Bonario -- with able assistance of Fred Van Cleave, owner of the area's most heavily trafficked used book stores -- had put out a call to get as many comic book collectors in the Houston as possible together to see if there was any interest in forming a club. In those distant days, the only way to obtain new comic books was at your local drugstore, super market or newsstand. Of course, you could subscribe (--I did--), but the comics arrived folded lengthwise, albeit a week or two ahead of appearing on the shelves. Back issues could only be obtained by regularly haunting the local used book stores which handled comics (not all did), or from such mail order dealers as Howard Rogofsky, Ken Mitchell or Claude Held.

 

The gathering was held in a meeting room at the downtown YWCA and, putting it mildly, the placed was packed. Aside from Schooley, Bonario, Van Cleave and Gene Arnold -- who had been profiled in story appearing in the Houston Post a few months earlier -- everyone was a new face. Even better, almost all had brought a stack of "old comics" (--the term "Golden Age" wasn't in widespread use and, heck, we were still in what is now considered the "Silver Age--), so even if the meeting failed to produce an organization, opportunities to pick up some comics abounded.

 

Dressed in my usual cut-offs and wearing long hair (I was nineteen and making a fair living just out of high school as an aspiring rock 'n roller), I took an open seat next to a friendly looking guy that, apparently, only Gene Arnold knew,. He was sitting quietly and staying pretty much to himself with a thick black binder resting on his lap. I had a box of pretty decent Action, Detectives, Adventures and Captain Marvels with me (sorry, no Mylar sleeves or acid free backing boards in those days), and it was pretty obvious that this guy had some comics in his binder. We began to talk as the hubbub and anticipation of the day's meeting began swirling around us. Poker faced, he didn't say much about the folder in his lap, but told me that his name was Glenn Kessler and that he had received a call from Marc Schooley inviting him to the meeting. For quite some time, he had been buying most of his back issue comics from local collector, Gene Arnold, or through the mails from Howard Rogofsky.

 

Okay, enough of the  friendly patter. What was in the binder??

 

Not much -- only Action #1, Superman #1, Sensation #1, Superboy #1 and on and on and on. I must have resembled a Tex Avery cartoon as sat there agog with eyes bulging watching him slowly flip each page of the binder revealing four color treasure after treasure. A crowd had gathered around us and before Glenn had reached the last comic book in the binder, the noise level in the room was down to a whisper. Now remember, unless you were around when it was printed in 1938 (--Roy Bonario, are you listening??--) you had next to zero chance to see, touch or be within a 100 miles of an Action Comics #1 in those days. Comic books, in the main, were stuff for Aunt Emma's attic and reminiscences of summer days, short pants and Schwinn bicycles. Which is exactly why we sought them.

 

Who was this guy...and how did he get such an incredible comic book collection in 1966??

 

Turns out he was pretty much like the rest of us, except more so. He liked cowboy movies and serials, cut his television teeth on a round screen Zenith and bought comic books from the time he could read. Unlike those of us slovenly brats that often found the best place for our super hero reading matter was on the floor -- and, therefore, one step away from the garbage can -- Glenn, apparently did clean up his room without incessant badgering from his mother. To this day, he still has the first Mighty Mouse comics that he bought off the rack in the 1940s.

 

Out of that meeting emerged the Houston Comic Collectors' Association as well as plans to host our first comic book convention, Houstoncon '67, the following year. Glenn, Marc, Roy fellow founding member, Ken Finnerty, and I soon began meeting after each monthly HCCA meeting for coffee. For hours we would reminisce...with each memory, each recollection provided a piece of the puzzle to each of our own not-too-long ago . The internet and ready access to information was decades away; video cassettes and DVDs were the stuff to make dreams of and even cable news television with 24/7 stories about Hollywood and its celebrities was nowhere to be found on the analog dial. 

 

Rediscovering our common interest in matters nostalgic soon led to our group getting together for "movie night" one Saturday evening each month, renting 16mm films and serials. We soon began publishing a fanzine, SATURDAY'S WORLD. Unlike most 'zines of the time, this one was printed photo offset with halftone photos. By the time the third issue rolled around, the text was justified and professionally set. It helped that Marc Schooley was a printing supply salesman at the time.

 

Glenn, Marc, Roy, Finnerty and I sold comic books together for a time as combine we dubbed  NOSTALGIA, INC. after the DICK TRACY VS. CRIME, INC. serial.  The night we decided to split up our large inventory of comics,  we did so by drawing lots and recording the whole thing on audio tape. Many a quip was uttered and I don't believe Abbott and Costello couldn't have scripted a comedy routine any better. It still cracks me up today.

 

In the early '70s, Glenn decided to sell his comic books to pay for his new hobby: collecting 16mm films. He had always been a devoted Roy Rogers fan and began setting about to own as many Roy Rogers films as he could find. He did just that -- but not the truncated 54 minute versions. No sir, just the complete,  unedited versions like he saw them in the theatre years ago.

 

And he did just that.

 

Before long, Glenn owned one of the finest collections of unedited 16mm Roy Rogers films....anywhere. To underscore the quality of his prints, we used many of them for the masters while I was at The Nostalgia Merchant. He also owned one of the first prints of THE LONE RANGER and THE LONE RANGER RIDES AGAIN after they were discovered in Mexico. They arrived in a jumble of large and tiny spools of film, some only five or six feet long. A guy that has enough persistence to keep his Mighty Mouse comic books, has the patience to do about anything. He painstakingly put the entire serial back together...spool by spool. No one has yet located the original 35mm preprint material for these classic cliffhangers, so if you've seen either on video cassette or DVD, they were probably taken from Glenn's prints.

 

He helped raise money for the Alpha Psi Omega honorary drama fraternity at University of Houston Drama Department (-- I was Vice-President--), by helping us stage our bi-annual, "Super Galactic, Earth-Shattering Cosmic Film Festivals". We would convert the comfortable confines of the department's Attic Theatre into a movie theatre and screen the complete ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN MARVEL and FLASH GORDON CONQUERS THE UNIVERSE serials, Marx Brothers classics, and so on. Glenn ran every single reel of film for each film festival.

 

To house his film collection, he built his own theatre in the second story of his spacious house, which was located on 15 acres in Alvin, Texas. He spent his week days as foreman of a shipyard foreman in nearby Galveston, Texas, but every other Sunday or so, I 'd often drive down, have supper with the family and watch westerns or go horseback riding. He on his nickel-plated silver saddle and his horse, "Honey", and me on my coal black Arabian, "Bravo", which Glenn found for me and stabled at his place. If Glenn looked remarkably like Roy Rogers in the saddle, I must have been a dead ringer for Andy Devine...because I was a wee bit too young to be Gabby Hayes. 

 

Glenn was, and is, old school. Let be more specific, "Old school Texas." That means if your give your word, it's binding. If a man's a friend, the last thing you look at is how much profit is in it for you; the first thing is how you can help. if you don't particularly care for some one, it doesn't matter how much money is involved whatever is at issue. And, finally, if you make up your mind, it's going to take an act of congress or the second coming to change it.

 

I write those things because there are not enough binary digits to tally all of the time, effort and contributions Glenn has made to so many areas of is loosely termed "fandom" over the years, may of which evolved in profit and recognition for others. We are all George Baileys...we all make a difference in the lives we touch.... and Glenn, perhaps, more than most.

 

And, of course, there are far too many personal stories and anecdotes amassed over a forty-two year friendship -- embellished as they have become with the passage of time.

 

But I will tell one particular favorite of mine.

 

Grown men we all were, but I was the youngest of the bunch at 23. We had been spending some of our weekends filming our Super 8mm homage to serials, CAPTAIN AMERICA. Naturally, since I was providing the film, camera and developing, I was Captain America. Glenn, Marc Schooley, Roy Bonario, Ken Finnerty and just about every other Houston fan were bad guys, while Ken Donnell, my fellow thespian Kathy Huff and myself were the good guys. After about six weeks of sporadic shooting, we became pretty adept at throwing punches, falls etc. Not in the class of a David Sharpe or Tom Steele, but passable.

 

The five of us -- Glenn, Marc, Roy, Ken and I -- were in our hotel room in Oklahoma City while attending the Multicon '70 fan convention and had ordered room service. When the food arrived, the server made some none too flattering remarks about comic books and men who read them as he was closing the door. I asked Marc to call back down to room service and order anything, but just make certain that they send the same guy back up to our room.

 

When we heard the knock on the door, we began arguing....loudly. The server began banging heavily on the door to be heard over the din of voices. Just as I swung the door open, Marc threw a fake punch at Glenn who went flying over the bed landing with a loud thud against the wall appearing to be stunned and moaning. The server stood motionless in the doorway, eyes the size of saucers and frozen by what he thought he has seen, as Marc turned toward him, face glowing red, practically breathing fire, and demanded "...and what do YOU want??!!"

 

Apparently nothing, because he left immediately without our signing the check...or asking for a tip!  

 

I am often given credit for the memorable successes of Houstoncons '71 through '75, and while it is true that I was the most visible person at those fan extravaganzas, the credit has to be spread among several people, particularly Glenn Kessler. He made his entire library of films available for screening, including both of his Lone Ranger serials and one of the few Trucolor Roy Rogers features known to exist at that time. He created many of the schedules and even ran most of the films himself. None of this he did because he had to. He did it because he wanted to.

 

This story is entitled "A Fella Named Kessler" for a very specific reason. The news media came out to cover Houstoncon '71 and the first appearance of former screen Superman, Kirk Alyn, at any fan event. When the journalist started giving the obligatory credits to the event organizers, he listed "Marc Schooley, Roy Bonario, Earl Blair and another fellow." You can guess who that was....

 

But just like his hero, Roy Rogers, his life has had its share of tragedy.

 

We almost lost him in 1969, when he was involved in a near fatal auto accident. Thrown from his seat, his chest was crushed when the car rolled over him. We almost lost him a again last year, when lingering medical complications caused him to plummet to two-thirds his normal body weight.

 

He lost his oldest child, a daughter, a victim to a violent, senseless crime.

 

By 1984, he had lost his well-paying job as foreman of a shipyard in Galveston and was installing home satellite television antennae and cleaning carpets door-to-door to make ends meet.

 

Times were tough, but a guy who actually believes in those lessons taught by Hoppy, Gene and Roy on the screen at Saturday matinees long ago has more than a little bit of mustang in him. It helps that his wife, Margie, has a bit of Dale Evans in her, too.

 

He managed to open his own comic book shop, Happy Trails Bookstore, in Houston's East side. The life expectancy of a comic shop, even well-financed and in good financial times, is about a few hours shy of a housefly, so it helps a bit, as we say in Texas, to know what you're doing. Did I mention that, in addition to the other aforementioned traits, Glenn Kessler is a savvy businessman?? Besides, since he was buying comic books a decade before there ever was a comic book price guide, comic book convention or comic book shop, for that matter, not many people were as knowledgeable about comic books, at the time, than Glenn Kessler.

 

Happy Trails was a regular fixture at the San Diego Comic Con offering some of the finest Golden and Silver Age comics available anywhere in the world.  He developed a steady, growing clientele, becoming one of the top comic sources in Houston and offering vintage movie posters, original artwork, toys and collectibles as well. Many a man in a three piece business suit or wearing diesel-stained khakis in Houston today, bought his comics at Glenn's shop.

 

But even cowboys have to head to the ranch house at sundown, so a few years ago Glenn divested himself of his comic book business to settle in a comfortable home just north of Houston. His kitchen, by the way, is furnished almost exactly like his childhood cookplace was -- right down to the box of Post Raisin Bran with Hopalong Cassidy's picture on the box sitting on the table.

 

What else would you expect from a guy who still has his first Mighty Mouse comic?

 

May God bless you, pardner. I'm looking forward to the next forty.....

  

---

THE JOYS OF THE JOY

Regardless of age, most of us have our favorite movie theatres. Perhaps its the gleaming 24-plex down the street where you can see the latest films in widescreen grandeur and in Dolby stereo. Some of an earlier generation may prefer the fresh air and steamy windows of a nearby drive-in, with bountiful snack-bar and plenty of mosquitoes to go around (--quick light up the Pic!!--). If your movie-going goes back to days of short pants, beanies and the Saturday matinee, you might yearn for the friendly confines of your local neighborhood theatre now a gone with fading echoes of voices once young and familiar.

 

I have candidates in the above categories, all of which have contributed so substantially to a lifelong love of the motion picture that my time seated comfortably in the cool dark of a movie theatre can be measured more accurately in years, not months or days. But the theatre that I remember with a special fondness, was neither palatial, a drive-in or in my neighborhood.

 

It was The Joy.

 

Located at 303 Main Street in Houston, Texas, The Joy was the very first movie theatre to meet you as you entered the north end of Main Street, a scant three blocks from Buffalo Bayou, a broad expanse of lazy, green water that separated the downtown area from nearby neighborhoods. It was not a "neighborhood" theatre to be sure, and no one would dress in their best bib and tucker to see a movie at The Joy. That attire was reserved for the posh picture palaces like The Majestic, Metropolitan or Loew's State.  The Joy was a movie theatre for the working families. Its bill of fare reflected the tastes of lean, rugged men who wore khaki and smelled of diesel and grease, or women who wore thin cotton dresses and, perhaps, just a bit too much lipstick or none at all.

 

Thanks to Houston film historian, David Welling, whose book Cinema Houston, provides the first in-depth history of the city's movie theatres and area exhibitors, I now know that The Joy actually began its life as a The Crown Theatre, a live venue which had been dormant for most of the 1930s, before reopening as The Joy in 1937. In the 1940s, the intimate little theatre filled its marquee with an endless parade of B-movies, classic re-issues and sub-runs of more prestigious fare. In each program -- which changed at least twice weekly -- The Joy never failed include cartoons, short subjects, a plethora of previews and, on Friday and Saturday, a serial episode.

 

The Joy also had a seamy side, enticing patrons with entertainment of a more exploitive sort and late night screenings of burlesque films, provocative-themed pictures (which always promised far more than they delivered) and even an occasional live stage show featuring scantily-dressed, well-worn showgirls with the proverbial baggy pants comedian emceeing the threadbare extravaganza.

 

I first began toddling to the Joy at age four, after my family had spent three years in Salzburg, Austria while my father, a U.S. Army Staff Sergeant, served  as part of the Occupation after World War II. Housing and jobs were scarce in Houston in the immediate postwar years, so we joined my grandmother and other relatives at Irvington Courts, a utilitarian-looking public housing project just north of downtown made of concrete and tile. The inside rooms were solemn, spartan and always damp. Void of any type of climate control, one could roast in Houston's blistering summers and freeze in the wet winters. Only the faint breeze of a fan or the warmth of a small, gas heater provided any relief. Though many more prominent and historic Houston landmarks have gone the way of the wrecking ball, Irvington Courts still stands and continues to be inhabited to this day.

 

It was often tough to make ends meet. Everyone worked. In those pre-day care, pre- CPS days, I would accompany my grandmother downtown on the  bus, where she worked for an insurance agent. On the way to her job, she would drop me off at The Joy, where the manager, a woman, kept an eye on me throughout the day as I watched the movies over...and over...and over again.  Perhaps, the manager was a family friend, or just a lady with a kind heart. Those who could provide that most important piece of the puzzle speak no more. Whatever the case, I was a daily fixture at the Joy.

 

In the evening, as my grandmother and walked to bus stop, it seemed like I was in a movie. Hadn't I just seen these damp streets, glistening in the glow of streetlights, on the screen?? Our path would often take us by The Houston Chronicle Building,  which housed one of Houston's three newspapers in those days, where the massive presses roared to life, briskly printing the latest edition on giant rolls of broad, seamless newsprint that zoomed upward and out of sight, disappearing behind the two story tall juggernaut, before reappearing below in an orderly line of neatly folded newspapers...exactly like the countless montages in all of those movies about courageous, crusading, crime-busting reporters. It was magic and all visible to passersby who took the time to pause before the Chronicle Building's towering plate glass windows. And there were small newsstands covered by the colorful covers of magazines promising tales of mystery, romance and the latest news from Hollywood which offered the freshly printed papers...and, in the neighborhoods nearby and across the bayou, young boys really did deliver The Chronicle, The Post and The Press from their bicycles....just like in the movies.         

 

The Joy may have been a bit seedy in the eyes of the locals, but to me it was a palace. It had a small balcony that was accessible from the lobby and a compact concession stand which, among its tempting confections, offered Orange Crush -- dispensed from an machine where the brightly colored beverage bubbled, sprayed and then cascaded down the sides of the clear glass globe resting securely on top -- and, tastiest treat of all: ice cream sandwiches.

 

Over a half-century later, I can still recall being in my seat and riding the range with Roy Rogers in Bells of Coronado, The Gay Ranchero, Susanna Pass and Trail of Robin Hood in vivid Trucolor hues . It was at The Joy that I met  Rex Allen on the screen after Roy Rogers introduced him the trailer for his first film, The Arizona Cowboy. Jim Bannon rode into action as Red Ryder, as did James "Shamrock" Ellison and Russell "Lucky" Hayden. Since the Joy was named and part of the theatre chain owned by Louisiana exhibitor, Frances "Joy" Houck Sr., all of the Lash LaRue westerns produced by Houck played on its screen, as did re-releases starring Buster Crabbe and John Wayne (both the early Warner Brothers and Monogram Lone Star westerns). Even Vaughn Monroe's two starring westerns, Singing Guns and Toughest Man in Arizona, were featured on the Joy's marquee.  

 

In The Joy's comfy confines I first became acquainted with Abbott & Costello in Abbott and Costello Meet the Killer, Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein, Africa Screams, Mexican Hayride and Jack and The Beanstalk. Laurel and Hardy tickled my young funny bone with March of the Wooden Soldiers and A Chump at Oxford. The Bowery Boys, East Side Kids and even the Dead End Kids -- all of whom my grandmother heartily enjoyed -- were regulars at The Joy.

 

Don't forget that in those distant days, movies would stay in release for years. Though a film may have been released in 1947, it was still playing at sub-run theatres for years after its premiere. Which explains how I saw Kiss of Death and was frightened into wet bed nightmares by Richard Widmark's leering portrayal of the psychotic punk killer, "Tommy Udo". I flew with Twelve O'Clock High and God is My Co-Pilot and marched into patriotic action while watching dozens of war films at The Joy. Thanks to the policies of studio's re-issuing films I also set sail for adventure with Swiss Family Robinson, found danger in the desert with Beau Geste and braved jungle perils in Tarzan's Desert Mystery and Bomba, the Jungle Boy in The Lost Volcano. 

 

The Joy also ran Mighty Mouse, Popeye and Walt Disney cartoons regularly along with Little Audrey and Follow the Bouncing Ball ...their vivid Technicolor hues burned forever in memory in  dazzling, arc lamp brilliance. Comedy shorts were also often on the program, which is how I came to meet The Three Stooges -- Larry, Moe and Shemp...not to mention Joe McDoakes, Harry Von Zell and Edgar Kennedy.

 

Most of all, I thank the Joy for introducing me to two of my favorites: science-fiction and movie serials.

 

Today, science-fiction is an widely accepted, popular genre of literature, films and television. Not so in the early 1950s. Even though development of the atomic bomb and flying saucer sightings of the late 1940s and early 1950s provided the impetus for the production of a new crop of science-fiction films, much of what was rushed to our screens were "quickies" or re-releases of older films and  feature versions of sci-fi serials: Rocketship (Flash Gordon), Mars Attacks the World (Flash Gordon's Trip to Mars) and Radio Ranch (The Phantom Empire). It was all pretty juvenile and generally dismissed as "that Buck Rogers stuff" by the majority of adults.

 

The major studios didn't hop on board after the box-office and critical success of George Pal's Destination Moon, which, in its Technicolor splendor and with Academy Award-winning special effects, amazed my young eyes.  As did The Day the Earth Stood Still.  And that's where the worlds of science-fiction and serials collide.

 

I had been captivated by the weekly installments of Ace Drummond (1936), which is the first serial I recall seeing, particularly the comic strip recaps at the beginning of each chapter which dissolved into live action and the articulated dragon that rose and roared flame at the episode's conclusion. Even though I had survived thirteen chapters of amazing aviation adventures with Ace in Asia, I was stunned, surprised and downright overjoyed when I saw the initial episode of the next serial.

 

It was Atom Man Vs. Superman.   

 

Omigosh! Superman was real! Here he was in the movies -- and in a serial, to boot!! I was like Little Ralphie on Christmas morning with his Red Ryder carbine. Superman, Lois Lane, Jimmy Olsen, Perry White, The Daily Planet --- even at such a tender age I knew who they were. After all, Action Comics and Superman were required reading for every boy as soon as he could hold a comic book. And here they were menaced by the evil Atom Man (--we all knew it was Luthor from the get-go--). Now, even at such a tender age, I will admit the cartoon flying segments gave me pause, but not enough to dissuade me from begging and pleading to go to the Joy even on Fridays and Saturdays when my grandmother didn't work.

 

For fourteen consecutive weeks, I was in my seat. Overcoming Luthor, his array of fantastic gizmos and synthetic Kryptonite wasn't going to be easy for "The Man of Steel." He would need all the help moppet moviegoers could give him. Then came Friday night. Eager to see the fifteenth and final chapter, I urged my mother to crank up the family '47 Ford and get to The Joy early. For what seemed like an eternity, I waited. Dishes had to be washed, hair to be set, clothes pressed, cigarettes smoked. I paced in nervous anticipation that only five year olds know, like fearing everyone at the birthday party will have already eaten all of the ice cream by the time you get there.

 

We finally arrived Joy just as the main feature, The Day The Earth Stood Still, was starting. "Oh no!" I cried. "We missed Superman!" My mother confidently reassured me that the fifteenth and final chapter of Atom Man Vs. Superman would be shown after this movie. I was doubtful, but soon settled in my seat to watch the fantastic events unfold on the screen before me. The huge flying saucer lands in Washington, DC and out steps Klaatu, emissary from another world and his companion, Gort, a silent, monolithic robot that was uncompromising...and deadly. Not like those silly-ass walking water heaters or tin robots with hats and faces that rattled along in ancient cliffhangers. Gort could hurt you...and would!!

 

I was captivated, mesmerized and all too soon, Klaatu gave his warning to our world, boarded the saucer with Gort and zoomed off into space.

 

End of movie. The lights came up and the patrons began to leave the theatre. Superman was not to be seen.

 

I was crushed. Mothers are God's most wonderful creations. In the realms of caring, loving and telling you to brush your teeth, take a bath and, in general, running about 99.9% of their child's life, they have no peer. But when it came to two of the most important issues in a baby boomer boy's  life -- serials and comic books -- they should have disqualified themselves. After all, how many hundreds of times have I heard the story about a kid's mother who threw away his comic books just to keep his room clean?? I agree, cleanliness is important, but more so than the comfort provided by dog-eared issues of Batman, Green Lantern or even Peter Porkchops?? Methinks not...

 

I didn't see the final chapter of Atom Man Vs. Superman...not that night or any other night until nearly 50 years later when it was released on video cassette from the star Kirk Alyn's personal 16mm print. Naturally, the first thing I did was fast forwarded the second cassette to Chapter 15 to see how it all came out. I used to tell Kirk -- who became a close friend -- the story and he always got a chuckle out of it.

 

Other serials followed at The Joy: Pirates of the High Seas, Cody of the Pony Express and more. None captivated as much or  were as memorable as Atom Man Vs. Superman... and the night I didn't see the last episode.

 

In 1953, we moved into our version of the American Dream: a new two bedroom house in the suburbs, further out and on the edge of the city limits. We had left The Joy and its wonders and soon it would leave us. The last newspaper ad for The Joy appeared in 1955.

 

Whenever I go to an Houston Astros baseball game in downtown Houston, I pass right by the 300 block of Main. There's a smartly landscaped patio nestled between towering buildings where The Joy once stood. Little do the unsuspecting pedestrians who trod those rust colored bricks realize that it once was a place where fantastic adventure, laughter and excitement could be enjoyed in air conditioned comfort for only the price of admission.