Learning Day: Open Heart Forum (Patreon)

Somehow, the romance comic money printer’s still off. Sure, publishers entertain boring artist breakups and their boring artist feelings, and Archie’s still trapped in a time loop. But we’ve surrendered insane drama about cheating on/by pirates to prose. That was once a fight to the death, and comics held their ground.

Or at least did well enough to support backup features.

The Open Heart Forum is just like a modern comic’s letters page. But with less of Batman’s love life, and more of yours. The advice column ran in Superior Publishers LTD titles like Our Secret, Secret Romances, Secret Secrets, and Premarital Urges. Kayfabe-friendly readers pretended “Miss Martin” wasn’t three editors mining life before deadlines. And that Superior didn’t tend to reprint stories across series.

The pen name might recall Judith “Miss Manners” Martin. Or not, if you save neurons for better trivia. But unless she syndicates columns through time, it’s not her. Superior stopped existing in 1956, two years after comics got their own spandex Hayes Code. Never seek recognition as art. People love trampling art.

The column took me by surprise. See, I thought this article was about this comic:

In “Forsaking All Others,” a singer forsakes low credit. Specifically, she dumps her conductor for a sheik, because she understands math. Fair. Don’t get me wrong: that’s an awful way to treat your spouse or dealer. But a lower tier cash-in is toast. Big Band solos don’t hold up to free boats. You might not know how to dock, but that’s what the backup fleet’s for.

Her aspiring sister-in-law smells trafficking, and tails the elopement. “Abdul Abulbul” jumps right to murder, as caricatures called “Abdul Abulbul” do. The interloper persists. Her pitch is less “let’s keep your organs inside your body” and more “there’s a perfectly pale American waiting back home.” Which works. It all unfolds just quickly enough to make you feel insane.

Then I hit the Open Heart Forum. Fuck all of that. 1951’s lovestruck teens had questions, and I have answers for the few alive. Tip One: no-fault divorce is amazing. It’s like desegregation for love. Check it out before the Supreme Court nukes it.

I’ll divide these by issue.

Sixteen’s tough. Math abandons mercy, your social life takes a Hobbesian turn, you’re stuck halfway through a Hulk transformation, and College Board expects you to walk it off. Good thing predators aren’t into that, or half of us would be traumatized.

Let’s warm up. Who’s our first writer?

Nah, it’s too early for a missing persons case. We should start with a softball. An easy one.

Come on. I haven’t even injected preworkout yet. How about a non-minor’s love tumor? Or a minor’s love tumor with another minor? My notes are full of fresh malt shop jokes. You’re fucking my day up before it can consent.

Fine. Fucking fine. My doctor says more C4 would kill me anyway. Valhalla can wait.

Help her out, Miss Martin.

I’m with Miss Martin. Every year, I watch a two-hour training video about how funny this joke is, and how much students, parents, and deans love it. I haven’t tried it, since I like writing my own material. But I’m sure it kills with students trusting enough to play along. Thank you, Miss Martin. Get it together, Wondering.

How’s our opener doing?

Terribly. I’m made of opinions, but I’m also unqualified to comment. My dates are like half of Titanic. But Miss Martin can help!

See? Fine answer for the trees, if you don’t care about the forest fire. I’m still staying out of it. Advice columns are more about the coliseum audience than the inquirer. I don’t need anyone’s ten children and/or jilted stalker on my conscience.

Back to our other crimes.

AskReddit 1951 has a Gothic flavor. And a now-illegal flavor, but we’ll never finish this issue if I underline that each writer, real or fictional, is sixteen. When your ability to burn down your life leaps ahead of your ability to recover. I’ll assume these are bullshit to keep the true crime tag off my catalog.

What’s Miss Martin think of this cursed baby daddy? Is he groom material? Will his new job at the broken mirror factory work out? Did he fall into an open sewer before this letter saw print? Does that joke still work if I want that? Should we ask his ex a question or four? Or the county coroner?

There you have it! Love conquers all. It might look like Miss Martin’s sympathy defaults to the figure closest to a divorced male 1950’s editor. But if you look closely, a second thing is true.

I might have to step in. Though outside of comedy, I sometimes lack a certain warmth.

It feels good to help people. By now this tragedy’s wrapped up, but I feel better. The next issue should be lighter fare.

“Forsaking All Others” ran here. The other shorts lean less on racial caricature, but keep the melodrama running. They’re reprints or edits of old shorts, with arcs similar enough that you’d have never known.

The Open Heart Forum marches on:

Note Joan’s two options. There’s no peace in her world, only open and shadow warfare. That said, I see the dilemma. On one hand, poaching dates can end in chaos, resentment, or shared Valtrex. On the other hand, fuck it. So far free spirits spend less time writing letters and more time smiling.

Let’s get Miss Martin’s take.

Harsh. More importantly, she’s vastly misread the fucks Joan gives. Like most advice column features, Joan’s already made her choice. Why not give her a boost?

A few others write Miss Manners for rubber-stamps. Like Jim:

Looks like I’m a fake fan. I’ve spent enough on comics to not own property, but I never asked Vertigo for permission to break up with my not-girlfriend. That’s dedication. Jim definitely married the next girl he held hands with, and asked Miss Martin first.

Jesus was nicer to the Pharisees. Maybe that’s an advice writer’s fate: you either become a Care Bear or a Care Bear that tells Jim to go fuck himself. Normally, I’d ask what Jim did in a past life to earn this. But he was clearly a steppe raider.

I’m all for ethering kids seeking emotional support, but there’s a lot of fluff here. Let’s cut this down to the basics.

This is far too addictive. The Open Heart Forum’s less about filler, and more about power. Every letter asking “Where is my spine?” summons your best Don Rickles impression.

Chasing that dragon goes places.

Open Heart Forum’s not all about tap-dancing on reader’s spines for kicks. An advice column still has to hold people’s attention. The same “Man Bites Dog” rule that melts newspapers into nonsense is in play, and decides which letters run. Or, more simply, crazy shit comes first.

This issue has a little of the usual:

As if we’re not numb to infidelity. Even Miss Martin chides the reader’s stale material:

The preceding letter on the same topic in the same issue. The advice amounts to “close thine benighted skirt.” Miss Martin doesn’t dig reruns—keep that in mind for later. She’s much more awake for the opener, wherein a man bites a dog biting a man.

I don’t believe you. Please, continue.

Sensitive topic. A web of insultingly naked lies, but wrapped around a difficult scenario. I think the edit team’s ready for it.

“Maybe if you stopped coughing, he’d stop cheating.” A new spin on a classic. That mastery of formula gave comics seventy jungle queens. And a few superheroes.

If this happened, I’d shit on this response for another 2000 words. As things stand, it’s easier to play along.

I’m still a little salty. Yes, all Reddit posts and agony aunt letters are bullshit until proven still bullshit. But there’s an art to lying. Karl Rove’s name will live on as the last great artist before The Great Darkness. Especially his work crafting The Great Darkness. Bewildered lacks that grace.

Credulity’s not the only landmine: high concepts are risky. Filler between I Married a Mime and The Mime That Loved Me can only get so serious. For the 1950s, “TB Hospital Drama” is like making paper-mache hearts with Korean casualty reports.

We’re out of Miss Martin’s league. Life after jail is hard enough to drive you to, you know, crime. There’s a whole amendment monetizing that. Miss Martin flubbed “How do you decorate a playground for a wedding?” and “How many families should you let your husband start?” Per the next issue, three. But for now:

She plugs the series, passes the buck, and bounces, earning a place in advice columnist Valhalla. Also known as hell. I’m boned too, because we’re even further out of my depth as a pundit. I’m the human version of a heiress’ handbag dog. Which is also my whole dating strategy. Here goes:

I’m finished. No self-respecting agony uncle can live with this defeat.

That’s the advice business. One day you’re on top, the next day Superior runs an identical column called “Heart’s Desire.” But Miss Martin says exactly what she thinks of your problems first.

In Secret Romances #3, Miss Martin’s bored of prom tears. She sets out to write the last teen advice column, solving young love forever.

I adore this, and not just because “Dear Young Folks” breaks the character’s voice in half. These reprints sold well enough for Superior to say “our column is bullshit, our stories are bullshit, and you’re bullshit. Choke on your youth.” Miss Martin ran so that Real Time could walk.

See? You can flop without an incorrect word.

This bit’s a nostalgia trip. Before matchmaking made multiplayer fun for other people, I threw breakup angst into kicking Dark Souls players off balconies. It looked like this. Printing comics for teenage romantics, starting a column for their problems, and then calling them dorks. It’s the closest publishing gets to Anor Londo invasions. Or, if you’re more balanced, headbutting your way through a jungle gym.

A Robin Thicke apology’s funny, so go for it. But results may vary. “Try harder” doesn’t go far here either. Chasing an ex is a game of South Park Roshambo with yourself. You can’t wash the scent of betrayal out of a TB hospital ward.

Or bile. Though the bile here recedes, in favor of meandering. This premise still has space to fill.

A balanced, moderate stance. When your subjects can vote. Feel free to windmill dunk on children here. You have my blessing. Shout “LeBron” while you do it. Break the basket, and make their middle-aged fiance pay for it.

Looks like the cure to shyness is don’t. Honestly, this advice works. I told my roommate, and he cracked me in the face. Nothing shy about it. He even said “fuck off” in a clear, confident baritone. I might get back into the advice game.

The Open Heart Forum’s an inspiration. It clarifies a lifetime of stray advice. To find love, just forget everything you’ve ever read about it.

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This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Rhia, who should settle down with that nice older serial killer before she graduates high school and is too old to wed. 

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