Author: Dennis O'Neil

DENNIS O’NEIL: Sherlock of the Movies

Ah, there you are. Still with us. Good. You survived the turning of the new year and the doom some are predicting hasn’t happened. Yet. But be of good cheer, you who are longing to manifest the death instinct that Sigmund Freud said is common among homo sapiens. According to something I read somewhere, the Big Erasure isn’t due until the fall. So we might yet be annihilated, thank you very much.

Meanwhile, we can read comic books and/or go to the movies. That’s what I did day before yesterday, went to my local monsterplex and saw the new Sherlock Holmes flick. And pretty much enjoyed it. Director Guy Ritchie and his associates have done what, I maintain, must be done with olden characters if they’re to appeal to contemporary audiences; he reinvented Sherlock and Dr. Watson and even Sherlock’s smarter brother, Mycroft.

Sherlock is still the world’s greatest “consulting detective” and Watson is still loyal, courageous and honorable and Mycroft is still brilliant and still needs to get to the gym, urgently. Nothing here alien to the 60 Holmes stories Arthur Conan Doyle gave us more than a century ago. But although Doyle’s Sherlock was occasionally a man of action – he could give a good account of himself in a donnybrook, by Jove – and he had a streak of the rebel in him, he was primarily a thinker and a scientist, and despite that tiny flavor of rebellion, he espoused the Victorian values: respect for order and tradition and law and, despite the denseness of some of the policemen he dealt with, also a respect for authority.

Those aren’t our values.

The world has churned and we know that science isn’t always benevolent and order is not the highest good and scoundrels can hide in tradition and authority figures…oh, come on! Check the headlines or a reputable newscast or two.

Mr. Ritchie and friends haven’t gobsmacked those quaint values – if you squint hard you might be able to discern them – but they’re largely ignored. What’s emphasized is comedy and action, along with enough science and ratiocination to qualify the hero as Sherlock. If you’re familiar with the Doyle canon, you might react to the movie’s references and rearrangement of plot elements. If you’re not… no harm, no foul. What you need is up there on the screen, though you might have to pay close attention to get it all.

I have one gripe, and for me it’s not a new one; I can level it against a number of entertainments. It’s this: much of the action is rendered in blurs and pans and ultra-swift cuts and so we popcorn eaters don’t know exactly what’s going on. The Asian actioners have demonstrated that there is considerable entertainment value in a clearly seen, cleverly choreographed fight scene. Why deny us that pleasure, particularly in a movie the budget of which is the size of Neptune? I mean, you can hire really good stunt people.

RECOMMENDED READING: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, by Arthur Conan Doyle

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

DENNIS O’NEIL: Between The Panels

Oh yeah, here we go with another time displacement. I’m writing this at about 5:20 on Saturday evening, New Year’s Eve, and you’re reading it, at the earliest, on Thursday morning.

Unless you’re not reading it at all because the doomsayers were/are right and maybe the world stopped existing at midnight, or stopped ever having existed, which would pretty much cancel you and me, and make who’s reading what moot.

Or maybe…you’re not you and I’m not I. Maybe we exist in parallel universes and because of some unthinkable and pretty dumb cosmic anomaly, what I’m typing into my computer changes places with what my other-universe doppelganger is typing into his computer – the same words, same typos, same everything, only a different and completely identical reality.

Can you say that it isn’t so? Can you be absolutely certain that it isn’t so? I thought not. (Or we thought not?)

Or maybe…this is all a hallucination. Maybe I’m a brain in a vat being fed an illusory existence by who-knows-what kind of mad – or utterly sane – scientist. Or maybe old Rene Descartes was right and I’m at the mercy of a demon who’s feeding me the illusions. Which, of course, posits that demons exist. But heed me, all you skeptics – can you prove that demons don’t exist? (I won’t even mention unicorns.)

Or – still on the topic of illusions – maybe it’s about 50 years ago and I’m driving home late on a Friday night after being dumped by my girlfriend of four years and, full of woe, I’ve accidentally run a red light and been hit by a Walnut Park bus and in these, my last few moments, I’ve hallucinated a long life which includes eventually marrying the young woman who’s just terminated our romance. Any nanosecond now, lights out.

A final hypothesis appropriate to the venue we’re occupying, you and I and our other selves, if any: maybe we’re all characters in a comic strip created by a staggeringly advanced writer-artist with really excellent equipment – no sable brushes and india ink bottles for him/it. No, he/it has tools we wouldn’t know how to use even if reality glitched and we got our hands on them and his/its existence, if any, certainly explains all the stuff that vexes and disturbs and dismays us and torments our days, the stuff we just can’t dammit understand!

How? Well, think about it. Maybe all that would help us make sense of our lives happens between the panels and since we don’t exist there, between those panels, we can’t possibly know about it. And hey – doesn’t that let us off all kinds of hooks? Well, maybe not. I guess we’d have to know more about him/it to answer that. I mean, does he blame his creations for their shortcomings?

I may be getting close to Deep Philosophy here and before we get caught in that quagmire, I’m going to scurry away, wishing you all lots of light as I go. Assuming that you, or I, or any of us, exist. Or ever have existed.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

DENNIS O’NEIL: Santa or Scrooge or the Grinch?

You might be chipper, content, full of good cheer – that is, you might a person who enjoys crowds and deadlines and the giving of gifts. This is your time and I say, blessings.

Or you might feel like you’re sucking a bare electric wire, stressed and frantic because your always busy life has become a nightmare of scurrying and doubt. (Will Granny like the pajamas? What to get for Aunt Bertha, a Scientologist who’s just declared herself to be a vegan? And nephew Horatio….doesn’t he already have every comic book ever published?)

One size never fits all, in holidaying as in everything else.

Well, which it is? Santa or Scrooge or the Grinch?

Let’s eliminate the Grinch from this discussion. Dr. Seuss was a national treasure, but – let’s face it – the Grinch is fantasy and was never intended to be anything else. And the jolly old elf? Okay, there’s a vaguely historical basis for him, but the guy in the red suit with the beard? Naw. Not for anyone older than eight.

Leaving us with Scrooge. Old Ebenezer is fiction (and was never intended to be anything else) but his is a fiction rooted in some truth. Haven’t we known a Scrooge or two? Haven’t we been a Scrooge? Show of hands, please.

I’ve just put mine down.

Oh, I can, and have, justified my Scrooge attacks with sweet reason. Isn’t Christmas really a pagan holiday, a celebration of the end of winter and the coming of spring, with its brightness and warmth? An occasion for rest and renewal? Perhaps a way to reassure ourselves that, despite the darkness, we will survive? And hasn’t it morphed into something the opposite of what it once was, a festival, not of light, but of greed and showing off for the neighbors? The season of frayed nerves and bereft bank accounts? Of terror at the arrival of the Master Card envelope?

Yeah, afraid so. But we Scrooges – in the hush of our chambers, at three in the morning, we know the real reason for our sourness, don’t we?

When one’s life is flaking apart, for whatever reason, displays of cheer and the sound of song exacerbate the anguish. So the churches and the bars and the AA meetings do brisk business on the holiest of eves, because a lot of lives are flaking. Remember Thoreau: “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Amen, and Thoreau’s observation can be most painfully true on Christmas. So we’re not mad at the season, we Scrooges. We’re mad at ourselves for allowing our existence to become one of quiet desperation.

When the holiday is a deserted street and an empty bottle, what’s to celebrate?

We have to blame someone or some thing, and Christmas won’t argue with us.

Some of us Scrooges will awaken in the morning and, I don’t know… send a kid to buy a goose?

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases


DENNIS O’NEIL: ‘Tis The season, continued…

According to some recent news, the sun seems to be bouncing stuff off an invisible, planet-sized object near Mercury. Of course, the smarty-ass scientists have an explanation – don’t they always? – something about how the pictures are processed. Other, more sensible, people have speculated that the invisible thing is a spaceship hidden by a cloaking device, maybe spying on us from two planets away. (Really big binoculars?) I’m afraid that misses the mark, too. The obvious answer is…Santa’s sleigh! Think about it – a cloaking device. Of course. That explains why we’ve never seen it. And the size of a small planet (which is still pretty big)? Well, it can’t exactly be tiny, not when it carries all those toys for good girls and boys.

Now, it’s true that as I look about me I don’t see many good girls and boys. None, in fact.  So maybe the invisible sleigh is full of lumps of coal to be put in the stockings hung by the chimney with care, assuming anyone hangs stockings anymore.  This could be glad tidings. If the coal comes from Mercury – and surely it might – why, we might just have ourselves a source of clean energy.

Isn’t it grand when truth meets science?


About 15 years ago, give or take, a movie-involved bearer of my DNA put a video cassette into our VCR and showed us a short cartoon that was going around titled, just a bit sacrilegiously, Jesus vs Santa. The plot was simple: the Jolly Old Elf and Our Lord and Savior duke it out to determine who’s the king of the holiday. I forget who won and that isn’t really important (and herewith I resist the impulse to launch into a diatribe). What is important, or at least interesting, is that the two young guys who perpetrated the cartoon were (and are) named Trey Parker and Matt Stone and what played in our living room was the predecessor of Comedy Central’s champion half-hour, South Park.

The story probably doesn’t have a moral, or even a point, but if you really need one, you could try, You just never know, do you?


Jerry Robinson, a man I was proud to know, is gone. Others have celebrated his achievements and accomplishments, his generous spirit, his activism, and his art. I have nothing to add.

But, thinking of Jerry, I remembered a quotation from Raymond Chandler’s Simple Art of Murder: “He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world”

That was Jerry.

RECOMMENDED READING: Jerry Robinson, Ambassador of Comics. By N. Christopher Couch.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

DENNIS O’NEIL: Christmas Gift Fun

The good news is, the Christmas gift list is shorter this year.

The bad news is, the Christmas gift list is shorter this year.

But enough gloom, for ‘tis the season to be jolly, ‘tis it not?

And judging from the number of cars in the mall parking lot, the season ‘tis jollier’n hell. Don’t these shoppers know about the mess the economy’s in?

Did I mention fa la la la la la?

And now a quick trip into the Chamber of Curmudgeons, significantly emptier since Andy Rooney’s gone. But (entering the chamber) I am the guy who once commissioned a magazine cover depicting a skeleton in Santa Claus garb holding an empty sack, so my curmudgeon cred is intact. And I proclaim:

It used to be so much easier, dang it!

Buying gifts for comics geeks, that is. Because there really wasn’t much choice. Back in the Pleistocene, when I was reading my first comics, Batman or a Superman might serve as an also-gift, what’s called a stocking stuffer, but even a not-too-bright gradeschooler knew that a comic cost only a dime and there had to be something else under the tree.

Later, much later, after the first Batman hardcover graphic novels turned out to be good sellers – best sellers in the limited world of comics – an editor or two was yearly tasked with producing a hardcover for the holiday trade. It was sometimes difficult for the editors, but a good deal for people seeking a present for that snotty nephew who always had his head in them funny books. A couple of sawbucks and – problem solved.

Now… big changes. As a stereotype, that kid with the buried head no longer exists. Comics have attained full parity with other forms of story delivery. You’re not expected to be dumb if you read the stuff. You can, with good conscience, buy a graphic novel for almost anyone you know who likes to read. Or use something comicy to introduce a reader to something he/she hasn’t yet discovered, and might enjoy. You doubt? Hey, Maus won a Pulitzer.

But your choices aren’t limited to Art Spiegelman’s masterpiece. Lordy, no. The monster book mart in the aforementioned mall has a wall full of comics stuff: manga, hardcovers, paperbacks, reprints, originals…that’s not counting the novelizations of movies over in the science fiction section and…that’s not counting the growing list of books about comics.

Cost? All the way from four-five bucks to – brace yourself – four hundred American dollars for the deluxe edition of Star Wars comics published by Abrams and also available in a more modest edition. (Okay, I wrote the introduction. But I don’t get royalties. We’re honest curmudgeons here in the Chamber.)

My recommendation? How about, all of the above? Or: if you’re a book person, you probably like to browse. So browse, on online or off. If you’re likely to be the gift recipient, drop hints. You know how to do that. You’re smart. You’re a comic book reader.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

DENNIS O’NEIL: Writers vs Editors… Forever

So there I was, sitting at my desk, surrounded by the detritus of the editorial life, not being productive, listening to the voices coming from across the hall: a fellow editor and a freelance writer engaged in something about half way between discussion and argument.

Editor: It’s not the kind of thing we publish.

Writer: But it’s what I want to write!

But we don’t do stuff like that.

But it’s what I want to write!

Another volley of buts, both articulated and implicit, and the meeting ended with the writer still needing to find a way to pay his bills.

I was an editor for more than two decades; you know whom I sided with.

But…what was with the writer, anyhow? Was this an instance of an ego bloating up and strangling its host? Or – and here we enter The Region of Psychological Murk – was the writer subconsciously sabotaging himself so he wouldn’t have to face the possibility of failure?

Or did he have something?

I mean, the writers (and artists) are the creative ones, right? Shouldn’t they be allowed to go where their instincts take them, tugging readers, publishers and those rat bastards known as editors along behind them?

In a word: no. But this is a qualified no.

Begin with the implicit contract between publication and consumer. People have a right to the kind of entertainment (or information) they’ve paid for. Fail to provide it and they’ll fail to continue buying your product.

Now, the qualification on the previous but: What was stated in the preceding paragraph is not an insistence on storytellers repeating the old, shabby tropes, month after month, year after year until the sun cools. If they do, they’ll lose their audience as surely as if they weren’t delivering what the audience is paying for. The material has to be either current or somehow timeless and current is a lot easier. If it isn’t, the audience won’t be able to identify with it and they probably won’t be interested for long. Things change – things must change. (Sorry, you anti-Darwinists, it’s that kind of universe.)

I’m not advocating change for its own sake; that might be another form of ego-bloat. No, I’m saying that an altered world – altered technology, altered mores, altered institutions – suggests new kinds of storytelling that can be achieved without violating the premises of character or genre. Or writers might try delving into what already exists – finding elements already in the material that have been ignored and using it for the sort of story fodder that readers will find fresh and entertaining while, again, preserving character and genre. Or a writer might involve his fiction in subject matter that is new to it, but – yes, again – doesn’t wreck what the reader already likes.

Does all this squash self-expression? Not a bit of it. A long time ago, Raymond Chandler said that the trick to writing genre fiction was to give the reader what the reader wants while getting what the writer wants in, too. Chandler himself proved that it can be done.

RECOMMENDED READING: Ego: The Fall of the Twin Towers and the Rise of an Enlightened Humanity, by Peter Baumann and Michael W. Taft. This splendid little book delivers exactly what the title advertises.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

DENNIS O’NEIL: TeeVee’s Super Ray

A few weeks ago I was blathering about the absence of new superheroes in the current television schedules. Shame on me! I forgot about Super Ray.

Before you rush off to consult TV Guide searching for time and channel, be assured that you won’t find Ray there. The show he’s on isn’t about him. Fact is, he’s not exactly on the show. He’s a character created by one of the fictional people who is on the show. This character, also named Ray, is a comic book artist and Super Ray is his brainchild.

Still with me? Good, because it gets even more complicated.

The show is called Bored to Death and it concerns Jonathan Ames, a largely unpublished writer who moonlights as a private eye, his editor/restaurateur mentor George, and his cartoonist pal Ray. It’s a comedy, one which has grown on me; initially, my reaction was take-it-or-leave-it, but that’s morphed into a genuine fondness for an entertainment that’s quirky, unique and… what am I forgetting?… oh yeah, often quite funny.

Bored to Death gleefully and wantonly blurs the line between fiction and real life. The nominal hero, Jonathan Ames, played by Jason Schwartzman, is – no surprise here – based on the real Jonathan Ames but…the actual Ames plays Irwin who is trying to stab Ray because of a problem involving a woman. George Christopher is played by Ted Danson and I’ve never liked him in any role as much as I like him as George.

Which brings us to Ray, played by the ubiquitous Zach Galifianakis, and also inspired by a person with an address and a social security number, Dean Haspiel. Like the quasi-fictitious Ray, Dean is a cartoonist and a friend and colleague of Mr. Ames. All clear, right? Ray is tight with the Schwartzman/Ames and Dean is tight with the Ames/Ames.

Wait – there’s more! Some of Bored to Death’s storylines are borrowed from Dean’s autobiography.

But here the correspondences begin to dissolve. You probably wouldn’t mistake Haspiel for Galifianakis. Zach/Ray is a pretty dour dude whereas Dean is cheery and ebullient. To me, Dean seems to be absolutely delighted to be who and what and where he is.

(Yeah, you got me. I do know Dean – have known him since he was a little kid. He’s one of my son’s oldest friends. Okay with me if it’s okay with him.)

One more thing: Dean Haspiel is the only person I know who possesses an Emmy, an award he received for work on Bored to Death’s animated title sequence. And when Zach/Ray draws a picture on television, Dean actually wields the pencil…and again, the lines blur.

But see for yourself. Bored to Death. HBO. Monday nights at nine, eastern time.

RECOMMENDED READING: Nothing in particular, but Dean Haspiel’s website has information about his published work and a little Googling would probably yield more Dean, as well as a list if Jonathan Ames’s books. (The real Jonathan Ames, that is.)

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

DENNIS O’NEIL: Percy’s Inspiration

Our story thus far: Percy the comic book artist has gone to the South Street Seaport seeking influences. There he meets a mime and:

The mime stared directly at Percy and asked, “Looking for an influence, numb nuts?”

Gobsmacked! That’s what Percy was, absolutely gobsmacked! How could this white-faced bozo know what he, Percy, was after? It’s not like he was wearing a sign that said: Will work for influences.

“Pay attention,” the mime said and:

Was transformed into a little boy who is creeping down the stairs and sees a box and eagerly, eagerly unwraps it, flinging aside paper and ribbon and looks inside and is horribly disappointed and…

The mime transformed into himself again and, moving his face to within inches of Percy’s, growled. “You influenced?”

Percy stared at his shoes and mumbled, “You’re not even an artist. You’re just a guy who…I dunno what you do but how can you influence me…”

“Go to a museum,” the mime said and when Percy raised his eyes, the mime was gone.

A museum?

Well, Percy knew that there were a lot of them in Manhattan and he’d always kind of planned to visit one and he’d even got close to the big one on Fifth Avenue once when he was girl watching in Central Park…Okay, he’d go to a museum because, really, he had nothing better to do – in fact, he had nothing at all to do.

He found the right subway and got off at the right stop and went up wide, concrete steps past some columns and then he was inside a museum. Big. Crowded. Intimidating. He wandered into a gallery full of large paintings and scoped them out: saints – the people with halos – and characters from mythology –that’s what the little cards told him– and just people, all engaged in activities that were recognizable and interesting. Pretty cool, some of it, but…? “What does any of this have to do with comics” he said aloud, to no one.

“It’s about storytelling,” said a man standing nearby – a man who looked oddly like the mime if the mime had gotten rid of his whiteface, was sporting a huge, waxed moustache, and was wearing a tuxedo. “What these painter chaps do,” the man continued, “is imagine how their subjects would appear when their faces and bodies are at their most expressive and render that in the purest possible manner. Rather like what those buskers in the park…the silent ones who seem to be forever walking against the wind, poor devils.”

Gobsmacked – really, really, no kidding gobsmacked – Percy shuffled from the museum, took a bus downtown, entered his building, and slept a very deep sleep. The next morning, he skipped breakfast and went straight to his drawing board: the mime, the paintings, and what they did, how they communicated – his task was clear. Percy wasn’t satisfied with his first effort, or his five hundredth, but eventually, he got close to what he wanted. Then, he began winning prizes. But that is a story for another time.

Note: Thanks to Martha Thomases for “gobsmacked.”

FRIDAY: Martha “Gobsmacked” Thomases

DENNIS O’NEIL: “I Am An Artist”

Percy looked up from the newspaper he had liberated from his neighbor’s welcome mat and had an epiphany. He knew what had been missing. He knew what he needed. About time.

The story, in the paper’s arts and leisure section – the only section Percy ever bothered with – concerned a major comic book publisher’s revision of its product line. It was a straightforward news piece, with no snarky asides, and it was the third or fourth such piece the paper had run in the last month or so – further proof that comics were an accepted and respected part of the arts community. Which, since Percy was a comic book penciler and inker, made him an Artist. In his imagination, he saw that word – Artist – in neon letters as big as a Times Square Billboard, with a brass band playing beneath them, and Mom and Dad there too, beaming, and also the little hottie from across the alley who had always ignored him, fluttering her eyelashes.

“I’m an Artist,” he said to the empty apartment. Not too convincing. The problem was, Percy had gotten a lot of attention with a self-published comic that he’s written, penciled and inked and then made copies of on the machine in his dad’s office after everyone had gone home.

“That’s nice, dear,” Mom had said when he’d given her a copy.

“Uh huh,” Dad said, nicely disguising his enthusiasm.

His buddies told him the book was cool.

“Yer a frickin’ artist, guy,” an uncle said.

And he was, no doubt about it. But he’d been in New York for six months and hadn’t gotten past any publisher’s reception desk and he’d taken his samples to all the comics publishers and a lot of other kinds of publishers because, well, you never know.

Okay, he was an artist. But, given his lack of success, he must be missing something. What? Then he remembered the art history class he’d taken during his one semester at the community college…what had the instructor said? Artists had…influxes? No – influences!

Epiphany, Part Two: Percy needed influences.

He wouldn’t find them in his apartment, unless they came in the form of roaches, so he put on his Yankees baseball cap – bill aimed behind him, of course – and emerged from his building into a sunny August afternoon. He turned left – south – and began walking. Would he recognize an Influence when he found one? He had to assume that he would.

He turned east on Chambers – no particular reason – and continued to the river. Turned south and soon found himself at the South Street Seaport. On a fine summer afternoon like this, the area was crowded with tourists ogling the Nineteenth Century sailing ship and drifting in and out of the restaurants and shops and glancing up at the steel-and-glass skyscrapers to the west and buying mystery meat from the food carts. Percy joined the few people who were watching a mime doing the usual mime stuff – being inside a box, walking against the wind and some other action Percy couldn’t decipher.

Suddenly the mime stopped whatever he was doing, stared directly at Percy and asked, “Looking for an influence, numb nuts?”

To be continued

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases

DENNIS O’NEIL: Prematurely White

By now you know, unless you’re a fan who really reads nothing but comics and sees/hears nothing that’s not comics related: we had us a storm, we north easterners, and it was a humdinger. Lots of snow – lots! – before Halloween which royally screwed things up hereabouts and drove Mari and me onto the wet and gleaming roads looking for a motel with a vacancy because our house had neither heat nor light. Main problem seemed to be that the trees still bore leaves and their weight, added to the weight of the snow, caused the timber to fall, much of it across power lines. Cue music:

Away in a manger

No crib for a bed,

Poor little Denny

Lay down his bald head…

Okay, wrong holiday and we did a bit better than Joe the Carpenter and his family. We found a Holiday Inn near the Jersey border that had suffered a cancellation and so we didn’t have to spend the dark hours in a cold house, a car, or a manger.

And you know, I’m not complaining! I choose to live here, partly because I like the seasons and, as Diana Ross admonished, “take the bitter with the sweet.” Mari and I can consider the whole thing an unexpected little adventure, though if the power hadn’t returned this morning, I’d probably be calling it something else.

Of course, if I lived in Peter Parker’s New York I wouldn’t be bothered by meteorological matters. Same would be true if I lived in Metropolis, Star City, Gotham City…anywhere in comicbookland. There’s seldom snow there, or much rain, not a lot of wind or heat or humidity, and that’s a minor league shame.  Not that I’d want Pete’s Spidey suit sticking to his armpits, or Batman have to put on galoshes over his boots. But in a story, weather can be a tool. It can add texture and realism to the fictional settings, complications to the hero’s various quests (and without complications, those quests aren’t terribly involving). It can even be a major plot point, one that drives the action of the narrative. Or a source of humor. Or a reflection of the protagonist’s psyche. It can establish mood and it can help to establish locale. It could give a city character, as fog does for London and San Francisco or rain does for Seattle.

What is the weather like in Star City? Does the local television weather guy begin every report with, “It looks like another bland day here in our area…”

The exception, as is so often the case, is Central City, the New York doppelganger where Will Eisner’s Spirit fought whatever Eisner thought up to give him problems. It rains there. And snows. And gets warm. And the stuff is a joy to read, and if you’re looking for some recommended reading, well…most, if not all, of the Spirit stories have been reprinted. What I’m saying is, no excuses.

But for now…Hey look! A tree has fallen across my front yard. That hasn’t happened since…the damn hurricane a few months ago.

Maybe I should move to Metropolis.

FRIDAY: Martha Thomases