Here’s something to distract you on a Friday afternoon. (And if you’re at work, it will look like you’re very seriously examining something on your computer.) It’s a short story I did a while ago called “Saturday Night Dead: The Oral History of SNL During The Zombie Outbreak.” It combines two of my abiding obsessions, zombies and “Saturday Night Live.” I know Seth Grahame-Smith mashed up zombies with Pride and Prejudice, but I’ve never been that highbrow.

Anyway. It might be in poor taste. It might be funny. You can read it here on the site, or you can download a PDF for free from Scribd. All I ask is that you don’t try to sell it or otherwise rip it off. Hope you enjoy.

If you only look at the world through the windows of the Internet and 24-7 news, you’ll spend a lot of time in a hateful, sad place. (Yes, I am aware of the irony of blogging this.) So I’ve been trying to limit my screen exposure lately, just like I do for my daughters.

But occasionally, I can’t avoid the TV at my gym, or I get sucked into the latest atrocity via my newsreader feed. And then I feel a raging fury dwelling within me, and I usually spend a lot of time rethinking the merits of the death penalty.

This is what set the Hulk-O-Meter off this morning:

An 18-month-old toddler was ejected from an SUV after it rolled during a police chase. Her father — and I’m using the word in the loosest, biological sense of the term — allegedly stole a girl’s purse, and then took off. The toddler was flung from the vehicle when it rolled, and then — taking her tiny, hesitant, toddler steps — chased after the SUV when it started to leave without her.

I swear to God, I see murder flash before my eyes when I think about that.

I think about my own daughters and the looks of bewilderment and betrayal on their faces when I do something that hurts or disappoints them. I think of the trust they extend to me without thinking, without hesitation. They have faith in me, because they are supposed to have someone they can count on, completely and absolutely. And that is the way it is supposed to be. Parents are supposed to be the first response and last line of defense for their children. We may not be perfect, we might occasionally lose our tempers or fail to buy the present or the ice cream cone, but we are supposed to be worthy of that trust.

And that is why, even after she’s been dumped from a rolling vehicle by the one man she should be able to trust with her life, the little girl gets up and runs after him.

That level of betrayal — that sort of stupid, thoughtless, and selfish variety of evil — makes my hands shake.

I realize there is very little that’s ironic or smart or original in this sentiment. (The snarky Internet commenter who lives in my head comes out and says, in a Comic Book Guy voice, “Oh, he’s against child abuse, how bold.”)

This is another reason I’ve passed by so many of the daily outrages lately. There are plenty of people willing to condemn and to comment, and I don’t need to add to the chorus. I may not be the Christian I once was, but I try to remember that everyone faces a hard struggle, and the greatest challenge there is in these times is to be kind.

But this is just too goddamned much. This is exactly the kind of behavior that should be met with all the outrage we manufacture for things like the plot holes in Prometheus, or the latest political circle-jerk,  or, as I saw when I left the locker room, Kelly Ripa shrieking about cleanliness in ladies’ rooms.

So yeah. Hulk smash.

I didn’t like the 70s when I went through them the first time. True, I was only eight years old when they ended, but even then, I remember thinking on New Year’s Eve 1980, “Well, thank God that’s over.”

Part of it may have been my parents’ marriage starting to flatline. Or it might have been the dawning realization on the part of all Americans that the trajectory of the nation was no longer headed inevitably upward, that the flight-path toward American moon colonies and endless prosperity was running smack into the concrete walls of Watergate, the Oil Embargo and the Iran Hostage Crisis.

The 80s, by way of contrast, were a neon-colored, electronic synth, New Wave, Cold War Morning in America, with MTV and Japanese cartoons and movies that catered primarily to teenage boys, which was fortunate for me, since I was one. It was possible to be simultaneously frightened of the end of the world and still have an excellent time waiting for the nuclear holocaust.

Now the 70s are back, only bigger and meaner. We have a brand-new Me Generation, we’ve got skyrocketing gas prices, and we’ve got a housing crash and a recession, and a president looking at a possible war with Iran. Judging by fashion and hairstyles and music, it’s 1977 all over again. (Seriously, listen to this and tell me that’s not disco.)

This is why it’s a little baffling to me that I’m looking back on the 70s with ever-increasing fondness. Part of this is just the corrosive effect of megadoses of nostalgia. It’s worse than battery acid in the eyes if you want to see clearly. I don’t miss the ungodly amount of polyester everyone was wearing, or with the feathered hair or the faux-Afro perms.

But I got a couple books recently that reminded me of what I do miss: the insane possibility of that time, the blind, throw-a-dart-while-blindfolded-see-what-it-hits style that permeated so much of the pop culture that I remember.

For instance, these were the Slurpee cups Marvel offered people one hot summer in the 70s. Yes, that is Stan Lee in a cape and tights. Because, honestly, why the hell not?

Nobody in the 70s seemed to have any idea what would actually work in the marketplace any more, so any number of completely batshit ideas made their way into the lives of millions of impressionable kids — and I’m grateful. I try to envision pitching some of the shows I watched as a kid to a network today (outside of Adult Swim) and it always ends with someone calling security.

For instance, a show where a dad and his kids go through a magic waterfall and end up being hunted by lizard-men and dinosaurs who want to eat them. A guy with magic powers runs a resort with his dwarf slave and occasionally fights the devil. A cruise ship is a floating orgy interrupted only by announcements about the Lido Deck. Three hot chicks fight crime by displaying lots of cleavage. An astronaut will be partially dismembered and rebuilt and will use his new parts to beat up spies.

Oh, and Bigfoot will guest-star on at least three of those shows.

Superheroes were resurgent then, too. The 1966 Batman show was far enough in the rearview that Marvel attempted to make “serious” adaptations of its characters, like Captain America, Spider-Man, and the Hulk.

Even at the movies, where so much important, groundbreaking drama was going on, George Lucas built a world where a guy would discover he had magic powers and a laser-sword before blowing up a planet-sized space station. And DC and Warner Brothers finally made a big-screen, major motion picture version of Superman.

I loved all of that. Really. That’s what I loved most about seeing The Avengers on the big screen: the willingness to commit to a story that is certifiably insane. And that’s why I was so happy to get Marvel Firsts: the 1970s Vol.1 and Vol. 2 when they showed up in the mail.

The 70s were what I’ve always thought of as Marvel’s true Golden Age. and I was glad to see it wasn’t just nostalgia that led me to believe that. The books are a collection of some of Marvel Comics’ key issues from the time when the company threw caution to the wind and chased whatever trend it felt like on a month-to-month basis. Monsters were big for a week? OK, let’s do a monster comic. Kung-fu movies are playing at the revival theaters? Super, let’s make a kung-fu hero. Or two or three. Marvel did superhero, horror, romance, kung-fu, jungle action, and sometimes mashed them all together. It turned a one-off threat from Fantastic Four into a Christ allegory. It made a duck run for president. It had Dracula fight Doctor Strange and the Silver Surfer. It created the world’s first — and, as far as I know, only — voodoo-powered super-hero.

The issues don’t always hold up — it’s mostly the attempts to be topical or relevant, as when Greer Nelson has a feminist awakening before she becomes a cat-powered super-hero — but even the most ham-fisted political statements come off no worse than bad Silver Age exposition. And most of the time, the sheer lunatic joy of the concepts barrels past any mere logical objections. For instance, in Ghost Rider, you might ask: Why does Satan have a motorcycle-riding daredevil collecting souls? And the answer is: Holy crap, that guy’s skull is on fire.

Even though comics have increased in price roughly 1500 percent since the 70s, we haven’t seen a corresponding increase in creativity or, sadly, flaming skulls. That’s probably the only thing I really miss about the 70s: the sense of possibility. This isn’t entirely the fault of the creators or the companies. The market has narrowed and the corporate bosses are more demanding. If something isn’t a guaranteed hit, it’s difficult to justify the expense of getting it in front of an audience. The Internet also makes it possible for any trend to be sucked dry in a matter of days, so that comics can’t mine the zeitgeist the way they used to. And judging by the sales numbers, many fans are in the grip of a different kind of nostalgia than mine: they want newer versions of the same stories with the same characters. So I understand the obstacles.

That said, my favorite book on the stands now is about a guy who gets psychic impressions from the things he eats, and I’d love to see that more of that sense of what-the-hell hit comics again. I’ve got money still unspent when I leave the comic book store these days, and I never thought that would happen in my lifetime.

Thank God Marvel Firsts: The 1970s Vol. 3 is going to be out soon. It’s got dinosaurs.

The White House Correspondents Dinner is far more entertaining in retrospect. You can hear Obama laughing loudly at all of Seth Meyers’ jokes. Even the ones that no one else finds funny.

Then there’s his incredibly loose, stick-and-jab takedown of Donald Trump, where you can see how much weight is off his shoulders.

In retrospect, yeah — he knew something we didn’t.

1. The Feedback column in New Scientist. It is a rich vein of nerd humor with  wordplay like “Freddie Hg” and readers who send in the many illogical, incorrect and unscientific uses of scientific-sounding language in the media and the world. “Radioactive peanuts” is the punchline to one of these jokes. (I won’t spoil it for you.) For a few minutes every week, I get to imagine what it’s like inside the skull of a much, much smarter person.

2. T.H.U.N.D.E.R. Agents from DC. Back in the 60s, the THUNDER Agents were superhuman peacekeepers for the Higher United Nations — presumably the counties that actually make the decisions, rather than Lichtenstein — who got their powers from advanced technology that also had the unfortunate side effect of being lethal with repeated use. Several companies have tried to reboot the idea since then, but it’s never really worked by now. Written by Nick Spencer and illustrated by Cafu (as well as big names like Howard Chaykin and George Perez), this comic succeeds in creating an addictive look at a cold war fought with superhumans. It neatly incorporates the old characters from the previous series — who are more upright and generally heroic than their modern-day counterparts — and creates a new twist on the idea of a secret spy agency out to rule the world. Really fun, smart and kick-ass stuff. Every issue is too short, and the wait between them is getting too long for me already.

3. Community on NBC. I am growing embarrassed by my crush on this show. Really. It’s like a master class in comedy performed in the tightest confines of budget and time. What’s best about it, for me, is how the show has managed to maintain the emotional resonance of its characters despite increasingly absurd set-ups. In a just world, this would be getting American Idol‘s ratings.

4. Kohort. No idea what this thing is. Could be some offshore spam e-mailer. And yet, I reserved my username because I’ve been on every social network since sixdegrees and I’m not about to break my streak now.

5. Monkey Knife Fight Pale Ale. I was out at dinner the other night and saw this on the menu. I would have ordered it for the name alone, but it turned out to be the best pale ale I’ve had in a long time. Smooth, full-flavored and zero bitter aftertaste. Simply great beer, which is getting harder and harder to find these days.

6. Ten days and counting to the release of THE PRESIDENT’S VAMPIRE. The New York Post has kindly added it to its “Required Reading” list. And it’s jumped up to #55 on the Amazon bestseller list for horror.