In 1961, I was the luckiest damn kid on my block — or maybe any block. My father worked at home. Everyone else’s dad had to drive into Queens or Brooklyn or take the train into Manhattan. And it was not some boring, old desk job; my father was Jack Kirby, the King of Comics, and — though his humble personality would have him cringing to hear this — he is regarded as the greatest comic book artist and creator – ever. (Sorry, Dad).
via Hero Complex