Ten Cent Comics Orgy

Nothing beats a TEN CENT BIN at Baltimore Comic Con. Formerly a "3-for-a-dollar-bin," the last day of the show the price was substantially knocked down at this particular booth.

Actual quote from my BF as he handed me a 20-dollar bill at the booth: "this does not mean you buy 200 comic books."

I bought about a hundred comics.

Highlights:

* a large run of "Generation X"
* a run of old Avengers written by Roger Stern
* a run of the old New Warriors
* a smattering of 1980s Superman & Batman – remember these? "Done-in-ones?" You know, when it was just an issue of Superman & Superman was actually in the comic and everything?
* a smattering of the old "DC Comics Presents" which was basically "Superman Team-up"
* a near-set of the "Slingers" series from Marvel
* some issues of the old First series "Whisper"
* the complete set of "Fantastic Four Vs. The X-Men." Remember that miniseries? It had these weird nightmarish covers featuring Franklin Richards that kind of had nothing to do with the plot?
* the complete set of the '93/'94 miniseries "Spider-Woman"
* really random X-Men/mutant stuff
* a really messed-up old issue of "Kamandi" (messed-up in the sense that it looks like one big acid trip)
* and of course, an issue of "Wally The Wizard"

Usually with these discount bins I tend to buy mostly oddball items and a lot of "Bronze Age" stuff. This time I mainstreamed it up a bit. I just love buying old stuff in general, especially for dimes. I really would have brought home a whole longbox of those comics if I could.

Val Gets Rid Of Even More Comics

Why did one of these get the boot and the other not?

"Gets rid of" is actually a strong word. More like finding new home for them in one of several different ways.

As I've written before, I do this automatically every couple of months to avoid becoming a packrat -- because I have a packrat tendency.

What's interesting is what gets cut and what remains...

Both Strangers in Paradise and Meatcake have been in my collection for a long time -- why did I finally cut SIP out of the collection but kept Meatcake?

First of all, it's no dig at SIP. But that series seemed to be more relevant to me during a certain period of my life -- while Meatcake's gothic weirdness seems to transcend time for me.

Again, I chucked the Love & Rockets -- but that's partially because Fantagraphics have these awesome new collected editions for it. Ditto for Strangers in Paradise -- if I wanted to get those issues back, I could buy the trade paperbacks.
















singles vs. trades: it's been so long since this issue
of "Love and Rockets" came out, it would seem that
Fantagraphics would benefit more if you just
bought the current collections.

Buying the trade is often a rationale for getting rid of individual issues. Both Mark Millar's Fantastic Four and the new Omega The Unknown limited series got tossed -- because I only had a few issues of each, and would rather just have the trades. Same for the new Lone Ranger.

Then there are 25 cent bin comics that I have a maniacal attachment to. Take Marvel's Robotix, written and drawn by Herb Trimpe. Why in the hell am I holding on this book?


Because it's damn special, that's why. Strangers in Paradise might get reprinted in a dozen different formats, but who will reprint Robotix? Hm?

My point.

A Terrific Comic Book Grader

I think I've referred to this topic in previous posts, but I stumbled upon this article on prepping your comics for CGC and I decided to bring it up again. Basically, CGC is a company that grades and "slabs" your books for collection purposes.

I don't remember there being a CGC type slabbing service when I worked in a comic book store in the early 1990s. In those days, to put the comic in a mylar sleeve was considered a big deal. I think after the mylar sleeve came the sturdier sleeve or "case" -- the predecessor to the "slab" we all know and love today.

I still look for copies of comics that are in "mint condition" when I am at the comic book store. This is an unconscious search, habit, an automatic reaction built from my earlier comic book collecting experience. I never pick up the first copy of an issue on the rack -- I always reach in the stack and try to get a "fresh" one. Yes, just like one might do with a bag of Wonder Bread. The irony is, once I take it home I bend the cover back, toss it by my bed side, the cat steps on it, I step on it, etc.


My first assignment at the comic book store I used to work at was to accompany a co-worker to an-off-site grading session. It was basically the fabled story you heard so many times you believe it's just an urban legend: early runs of Marvels in decent condition kept in some guy's suitcase and found by accident. First Spider-Man, a run of Fantastic Four from issue #1, etc. Crisp, bright covers, non-yellowed pages, probably read only once and socked away in the suitcase.

And so started my strange, complicated, long-term relationship with Mr. Sid Lonesome. The first day I had to meet up with Sid to do the grading with him, he was late. Then I saw him coming down the block and the bus was coming. I hopped on the bus and motioned to him to pick up the pace and catch the bus. He didn't catch the bus. I got off the next stop and waited for him. I watched him make several unsuccessful attempts to light a cigarette in the face of a direct blast of wind. Then we went to the house to grade the comics.

We were both impressed at the collection, to say the least. Sid was instructed by his boss not to gush over the comics but keep a poker face; he gushed anyway. This of course made the bargaining harder. The owner of the books was an antique dealer, so he was no dummy. He just didn't know comics, didn't deal comics.

Sid: "Oh my God...X-Men #1 in near mint condition...it's...it's beautiful."

The way the deal went down, we paid through the nose for some of the "keys" in the collection -- Fantastic Four #1 etc. -- and then bought some of the lesser books, like early Tales of Suspense and Daredevil, for cheap.


Me and Sid finished the day by going to a big Chinese restaurant, the suitcase of comics resting on the floor beneath the table. We already devised how we would mark some of the really lesser books at fives and dollars and then just buy them ourselves. Our boss was paying us largely in comics anyway, either right-off-the-bat or when we turned around and spent our pay on them.

I determined that day that I really liked Sid, but I wasn't sure how. Many, many, years later, I was still at that stage of our relationship; I really liked him, but I wasn't sure how. And then we went our separate ways, touching base only occasionally. But I'll always remember -- he was a terrific comic grader. A terrible buyer, but a terrific grader.

Tips For The Overwhelmed Collector

I just went through my comic book collection the other day, tossed 1/4. I do this periodically with all my collections -- comics, books, DVDs, toys, even clothes. I do this because I know I have a tendency to be a pack rat. And knowing is half the battle.

Are you an overwhelmed collector? With the New Year upon us, now might be a great time to take stock.

1. Has your collection squeezed you out of essential living space?

2. Do you have parts of your collection either in your kitchen or bathroom -- not by choice?

3. Does your collection make you fill up with joy or dread?

4. Do you have visions of you passing away and your family struggling to get rid of all your stuff?

5. Do you want to relocate, but your collection has become so unwieldy that it would be cost-prohibitive to move it?

6. Do you keep stuff you feel no love for just because you think they might be valuable some day or just out of the principle that you must keep everything you buy?

7. Do you spend more time with your collection or other human beings?

8. When a piece of your collection gets damaged, do you get disproportionately upset?

9. Do you keep your collection in their original packaging and not touch or read them?

10. Have you ever skipped meals because of a financial deficit caused by a past, present, or future collection purchase?


It's fine to collect things. But we must not let our collections gets out of hand or distract us from what is really important in life. Here are some strategies:

A. Please keep in mind the Zen idea of Impermanence. Everything in this world is impermanent -- finite. Everything you own will eventually end up in thr trash heap. Everything you own will eventually get damaged and crushed and turn to dust. Even that museum-quality Iron Man helmet you bought.

B. Please keep in mind that YOU are impermanent. Your days are finite. Get a calculator and figure out roughly how many years, weeks, and days you might have left. I know that sounds ghoulish, but it's a wake-up call. Decide how you might want to enjoy your time left on Earth. Certainly reading comic books and the thrill and hunt of the collection are valid ways. But being obsessive over your collections or limiting the amount of time you spend with others might not be so valid.

C. Human beings grow and evolve; their possessions reflect that evolution, or they should. If you have surrounded yourself with He-Man figure from when you were a kid but you've psychologically moved past that era, those toys in-your-face are going to drag you down. Having one or two would be okay -- having Castle Grayskull mint in box in your living room while you have totally grown out of that is not okay.

D. If you are keeping the majority of your collection mint in package without touching them, you have a problem. Unless they are vintage Megos, in which case it's okay.

E. Comics and toys of past eras have ended up going up in price because back in the 40s-70s people were not that savvy about collecting for investment. But now they are. So the prices will never go up that much for new items. Unless they're Marvel Legends, in which case it's okay.

F. Every six months you need to go through your collections and cull 1/4 of them for irrelevant items. You need to be ruthless. Never keep comic books you feel "meh" about. Because comic books add up, multiply, have babies, take over your house.

G. Some comic books are worth more as recycled paper. Meditate on this one.

H. It is hard, but not impossible, to get a person to sleep with you when you have 300 pairs of action figure eyes staring down from the shelves in your bedroom. If you are considering sharing your life with somebody who may not be into the same hobbies as yourself, you might want to put those toys or hardcover collections of Witchblade in a den or living room instead.

I. If you want to get rid of large irrelevant parts of your collection but are agonizing about how to get rid of them for more than three months, go now and toss them in a garbage bag and just dump them and run away. Then come back and read the rest of my post.

J. A lot of times we purchase items for our various collections not out of a joy for the item being collected but out of a deep emotional need. Pay attention the next time you buy a comic book or toy or other collectible whether you are buying it because you will get enjoyment out of it or because you are feeling lonely/empty/bored. Learn to recognize the difference.

K. Never buy something because the purchased item might be useful/valuable for some indeterminate time in the future. Never buy a DVD if you have a stack you haven't watched yet. Never buy two of something for "investment." Never buy because you think your unborn child might get a big kick out of it when they're 30. Believe me, when they're 30, they'll be zipping around in their Jetsons cars.

Finally -- and this is more esoteric so bear with me -- the future will place less and less importance on owning "things." The trend will be not to have a big DVD collection but to either keep purchased copies on your hard drive or disc or to stream them anytime you want. As climate changes get more unpredictable and the economy more unstable, things like relocation becomes more and more an issue. You need to be flexible. You can't be burdened by tons of stuff in your house or apartment that impedes you from being mobile. If you have ever moved a big comic book collection, you know of which I speak.

People have been collecting objects they have an affinity for and amassing little libraries since ancient times. That's great. That's human. But -- like everything -- "all in moderation."

Except if it's those cute little wind-up robots from Japan, in which case it's okay.

Comics As Yer Lover

"At what point should you decide that Dan Didio is just using you for sex? Or that Grant Morrison is also using you for sex, but at least it's really good sex? "

These two lines guarantee a golden post.

At MetamorphoStuff, Ryan Day compares your relationship with your comics with your relationship with a girlfriend or boyfriend.

"Comic books, however, are promiscuous little whores with no standards or loyalty whatsoever. They want as many people as possible reading them, and they don't care who or why. You want to read them because you're doing your thesis on the evolution of the graphic medium? They'll take your money. You want to read them because you like Power Girl's boobies? Your money is just as good. Possibly better."

Personally, I like it when my copy of "The Initiative" #3 wakes up a half-an-hour before I do and makes me raspberry waffles and coffee.

(Found via Journalista, who makes it far too easy for me to find these damn things.)

Comic Book Guys Can Be Teh Sexy

Sean Kleefeld raised some interesting points in his article "Dudes Vs. Chicks," and I would like to counter with pictures of skinny/well-built comic book professionals who challenge the "Comic Book Guy" stereotype (commentary will follow):


Kleefeld's article raised some interesting issues:

1. Yes, there does seem to be a higher ratio of "skinny/well-built" women in the comic book industry. Why is this? Is it because women are smarter? Or because skinnier, more attractive women tend to get hired more?

2. DOES the "comic book guy" stereotype really hold water in terms of comic book fans? I have no way of knowing this outside a poll, or head count, or something. But I do wonder.

3. As way of a personal example: when I met David the G., I thought he did not fit the stereotypical fanboy profile. I thought he was a hottie, and nearly knocked down another comic fan at the convention to get to him & give him my phone number.

4. As I get to know more fans, I do not see the fanboy stereotype really bourne out in the numbers one would expect based on the way the media/entertainment industry typically portrays them.

5. When I worked with Silver Bullet Comics, one of the projects we discussed was having a "Mr. Fanboy" beauty pageant. Contestants would be judged on hotness and comic book knowledge.

6. It is far more common to see heavy dudes with skinny chicks than heavy chicks with skinny dudes. It's a societal thing. It's a "World According to Jim/King of Queens" thing. The pressure is on women to be teh sexy -- but not just teh sexy, but society's vision of teh sexy. It's ok for men to gain a few pounds and wear one of those cool oversized shirts with the dice on it. I've just gained 15 pounds because I was 15-20 pounds underweight. I've gone from a size 0 to a size 4. This is a healthy step, and it is nice having an ass again. But such a process is accompanied with fear -- fear of not being teh sexy. Why does there seem to be much more skinny women in the comics industry than men? Maybe women try harder because they are afraid of not being teh sexy.

7. I think this post needs more Paul Pope and John Cassaday:
Oh, and here is a picture of David the G.:

What True Love Is All About

BF calls me: "Hey baby, I'm down to my last $10, but would you like me to pick up anything for you before I come home?"

Me: "Could you please stop by the comic store and pick up The Sinestro Corps #1?"

BF responds: "Sure, baby, no problem."

And that's what true love is all about, Charlie Brown.
BF comes home: "You know, that Sinestro Corps cost $5."

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes Part Two

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes Part Two

Sid Lonesome is moving out of my apartment next week. He had been living in there for almost 18 years. Even though it was my apartment, Sid lived there far longer than me. That is because he flat-out refused to leave, and so I did instead.

If you do the math, Sid's extended stay means that he had known me since I was 16 years old. This is true. I met him at the comic shop. Most of my relationships begin with the phrase, "I met him at the comic-something."

Me and Sid had a very close friendship, but it was always platonic. I sometimes think that had it not been platonic, it would have been easier to end it. With sex as a factor, there can always be the explosiveness of adultery and jealousy to speed the process along if things are stagnant. But me and Sid were tight. Tiiiiiiight.

Sid never cleaned the house. He was an obsessive comic book collector and he never cleaned the house. This meant that dirt, comics, and toys all grew exponentially in the space over the years. But to be fair, he didn't buy the toys. I bought them. For him. I bought all his toys. I liked giving him gifts. I bought him an entire set of Sideshow Toys James Bond dolls. They looked very awesome posed on their stands, pistols at the ready. I bought him Pussy Galore, too, but he chose to keep her in the box because he didn't want to get cat hair on her shirt.

Sid never cleaned the house. He was never mean about it. He just wouldn't do it. So I split my time between cleaning it myself and nagging him to help me.

When I was 20, I asked Sid to move out. I was in college and I wanted my own life. I tried to bring boyfriends over the apartment, but it was just too weird with Sid there. Even though me and Sid weren't romantically involved, he was passively jealous of my suitors. By passively jealous I mean like when Felix Unger would honk and moan and say "don't mind me, I'm just going to stick my head in the oven."

I was always afraid that Sid was going to die, either by killing himself because I was gone, or from neglect of his own health. I realize now that he fed into this fear, and that it was all a passive-aggressive cluster-f**k.

I can hear Sid now, as I write this. He is coughing and hacking away. He just took up chain-smoking again two months ago.

"I quit!" Sid says to me. "I quit three days ago!"

He is always quitting three days ago. And then I always find him in the middle of the night smoking by a crack in the kitchen window, flicking ashes into a coffee cup. And look, I got no big beef about smoking but when you're 50 years old like he is and diabetic and all these other medical problems, smoking isn't the way to go.

Yes, you heard me, he is 50 years old.

When I was 24, out of desperation, I packed my things and left him in my apartment. When I came back four years later, he still hadn't cleaned anything. I mean, ANYTHING. It was like something out of the movie "Seven."

But I thought I could fix things (and rent-control is an alluring mistress) and so I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

Two years later, I moved out again.

Last summer I moved back for the final time. I told Sid that the apartment was under my name, that I needed to save money because of my hospital bills, and that I was giving him 3 or 4 months to move out. That date stretched out until this April, but he's finally moving.

I would say Sid has about 10,000 comics to move, and then another 2-3 thousand books & magazines. My intense desire to see these things gone is indescribable. My intense desire to see life move is indescribable. I mean, this has been going on so long that I am just in shock that it's finally happening.

But also, despite of everything, Sid is my friend. I worry that he won't be able to properly take care of himself -- that he won't get out from the avalanche of comics and medical problems and depression -- but I keep telling myself it is not my problem anymore.

And I don't blame comics for any of this. Comic books get a bad rap for being the oasis of the dysfunctional, but that's not what it's about. In the end, comics gave Sid tremendous happiness. In the end, comics brought me and Sid together, and we had some wonderful times.

In the end, there is no blame. There is just life.

I bought him dinner & gave him a Galactus T-shirt as a going-away present.

***

Sid says he can't take the toys, because he has no room in his new apartment. He asks if I can hold on to them for him, and I say ok. I had bought him this really sweet Hellboy doll that's going on my desk for sure.

And I'm finally getting this Pussy Galore doll out of the box.

What Turns Me On At Comic Conventions

No, I'm not talking about anything sexual (though for Occasional Superheroine the Comic Con can be a bit of a meat market)

******

Usually the biggest attractions at Cons are the BIG NAMES.

But for me, I'm most energized by talking to the following two groups:

First, the comic book veterans who have put their dues into the business. They've given their lives to this business. They don't get the big books all the time. They may or may not be between gigs. But they have a commitment to excellence in their craft, are dependable, and are a great resource. I like hearing their stories. I always want the best for them.

Second, the young (at least in spirit) up-and-coming new talent. The ones who singlemindedly folow their own vision. The ones who sink their life's savings into self-published comix. The ones that add a much-needed diversity and alternate point of view to this industry.

Both groups consistently leave me jazzed at the end of a Con. They are the real life's blood of this biz. And, though this sounds really corny, naive, and idealistic, interacting with them motivates me more to achieve in this industry so I can be in a better position to assist them and bring their talents to the spotlight.

So I'm going to add a New Talent Spotlight to the blog. I mean, why the hell not?

The Feng Shui Of The Obsessive Comic Book Collector

The Feng Shui Of The Obsessive Comic Book Collector

Act I: "It Can Only Go Up In Value"

I am currently helping my friend pare down his comic book collection and get some of it in storage so he can move. This is the same friend who, in my memoir "Goodbye To Comics," had collapsed. The one who had so many collectibles in his room that initially the EMS could not locate his body until I pointed it out.

My friend has two rooms piled to the ceiling with comics, genre books & magazines, and toys. Working with him to manage this collection is sheer animal torture. Because every last comic, TV Guide, and newspaper "might be worth something one day."

"It can only go up in value."

The reality is, he cannot bring everything with him to his new apartment, and the storage costs would be phenomenal. So some of it has to be either sold, given away, or thrown out. Most of what can be sold, in today's comic market, will go for relative peanuts -- dimes or quarters.

My friend does not want to hear this.

"It can only go up in value!"

Comics like "The Nth Man." The Robocop II movie adaptation. Every multiple cover for "X-Force #1" -- sealed in their polybags, of course!

There are also quite a bit of DC and Acclaim comic books. This is because I used to work for both companies, and, in my infinite wisdom, gave my friend boatloads of freebies. Me and my friend also used to work at the same comic book store. We got boatloads of freebies and discounted books from there, too.

Picture thousands upon thousands of comic books. Picture the smell of all that ink!--

"It can only go up in value!"

I can talk frankly about this condition -- the condition of the obsessive collector -- because I was once one myself. I used to own hundreds of mint-in-package action figures and dolls. About 15 long-boxes of bagged-and-boarded comic books. And countless books.

It all made me feel so secure, so safe. It gave me an identity. It replaced sex.

It disgusted me. Because I knew that I was hiding behind my collection so I didn't have to face myself. Also, men had problems fucking me in the midst of buckets of old He-Man and She-Ra action-figures.

"I can't...they're all looking at me! With their little eyes--"

One solution, of course, was to go out with another collector and merge our treasures. We'd have a kick-ass mega-collection, and we would never have to change.

But eventually I got so sick and tired of my toys and my comics and my fanzines and my crap that I began selling it off. Then I just started throwing it out in mass purgings.

It took about four years to get rid of 90% of it.

The need to collect is still there, though, lurking. I still have several hard-core collector friends and when I see their stuff I just get set off, I just want to hop on eBay. I picture a day when I'm solvent again and comfortable and I have a mate who understands and I can just buy up all those McFarlane "Movie Maniacs" again and just have a dusty crowded chaotic cluttered home-office stuffed to the gills with all my "preciousssssses" and empty styrofoam "Dunkin donuts" coffee cups crammed with cigarette butts. And I can totally backtrack on everything I just wrote and have a collectibles orgy.

And my mate would be like:
"Let's go to the Con -- let's buy more shit!"
"Yeahhhhh!!!!"

And we buy up all this shit -- autographed pictures of wrestlers, old Megos, back-issues of "Ms. Marvel" and "The Human Fly" from quarter bins -- and then we come home and open it all up and pass out on the sofa in complete and total ecstasy.

There might even be sexual intercourse -- maybe. If we have time. If we're done watching our bootleg DVD sets.

Yeah, I know: I'm weak, I'm a backslider.

But like Jules in "Pulp Fiction" I'm trying really hard to stay on the straight-and-narrow.

***

Next: In "Bring Me The Head Of Shari Bobbins," I discuss what happens when a silly female has the nerve to stop the collectibles-flow, and how she must pay...and how she must pay! (da-dummmmm...)

Goodbye To Comics: Postscript

Goodbye To Comics:
Postscript

Less than 12 hours after I finish my blog-memoir, my best friend -- a lifelong hardcore comic fan -- collapses in his hallway. I try to prop him up. His eyes are rolling to the back of his head and his face is spasming. He floats in and out of consciousness as I dial 911.

An older man, has had health problems for a while now. I knew this was coming. He is one of the old-school comics fans, starting in the early 1960s. His dream was always to be a professional penciller. He held out for that dream for a long time, finally altering his plans during the last two years and producing his own comic projects. He is a very talented artist.

EMS has a hard time finding him in his room, because of the sheer volume of comics & collectables. I point to the crumpled person on the couch under the blanket. I'm trying to hold it together but start to lose it as the techs approach him with their equipment:

Him: I'm okay, I don't need any tests.
Me: YOU'RE NOT OKAY!

It might be complications from his diabetes. It might be related to the high blood-pressure. His cholesterol is also very high. The EMS techs don't know, but they would like him to go to the hospital. He won't go.

So now he's sleeping, and I'm sneaking into his room every half-an-hour or so to see if he's okay. The techs said to check on him periodically and if his lips look bluish to call 911 again.

I've been told to abandon my friend's case for a long time now. He's just another "comic book guy." He would rather spend his last dime on the latest Marvel Essentials or art supplies than his diabetes medication. Do you know how many people I've known like that in my life?

It's not my responsibility. I have to move on with my life.

But I write to my boss asking if I can work from home tomorrow so I can take care of my friend. First thing in the morning I will make an appointment with my friend's doctor to drag him there for a diagnostic. I also want to know what medications he needs to be on and when he is supposed to take them. I leave messages with his with family members.

I start "digging" through the comic piles in my friend's room so there is enough surface area to place his medicine bottles where they will always be found. Looking at the titles, I recognize a lot of them as comps from my different comic jobs, a 14-year time spread.

Lives built around comics.

I call another long-term friend, who I met at a comics company ten years ago. He has also been of the "Goodbye To Comics" mindset as of late. I let out a good cry as I tell him the events of the last several hours. I also mention that I broke up with Donovan Paul. My friend says "good for you" but expresses some skepticism as to how long that will last.

Our conversation turns to comics, about the usual things -- what's wrong with the industry, how it can be fixed, and how we're both too old for this shit. Of course we're both in our mid-thirties and are full of shit for saying we're too old for this shit. But it's fun to say that phrase:

"I'm too old for this shit."

It's like we're two old hitmen from "Reservoir Dogs," about to go on another ill-advised mission. "I'm too old for this shit." It's like we're starring in "Lethal Weapon V" and we've got grey hair and about to jump from a flaming helicopter to the 61st floor of a burning hi-rise and somewhere in the background Chris Rock is saying something typically hilarious. "They're too olddddddddd for this shit!,"Rock screetches into the camera, pointing at our hapless selves.

By the time we're done talking the sun goes down. We've been on the phone for more than four hours. The mostly uneaten meal me and my best friend had began before the collapse is still sitting where we left it. I bite into a clammy egg-and-cheese sandwich and take a swig of cold coffee.

I pick up his keys and wallet off the floor. I check on him again. A fly lands on his cheek and he waves it away in his sleep.

I'm saying goodbye to comics. Be skeptical all you want, but I am.

But first I'm going to take care of my friend.

Goodbye To Comics #10: "Lost Girl's First Comics Job"

Goodbye To Comics #10:
"Lost Girl's First Comics Job"

So if you've been following the blog so far, here is the scorecard:
1. Crazy bodybuilding comic-reading possibly steroid-fueled dad.
2. Being called a lesbian throughout grade-school and teased because I read superhero comics.
3. Successful run at the theoretically-named Gilgongo! comics ends in harassment, character assassination, illness, and personal disaster.
4. Comic guy accidently rips vagina open during intercourse, effectively leaving me $15,000 in debt.

But there is so much more. There is a whole narrative about the comic collectors I used to hang out with when I was a teenager, a rogue's gallery that would make Dick Tracy weep. Most of those men are now nearing their 40s and 50s and are almost completely destroyed, living alone in dimly-lit apartments filled to the ceiling with comics & collectables. My entrance in their lives was unnatural, unnatural because I was a young teenage girl and I was not supposed to a)be reading comics and b)hanging out with sexually-frustrated comic fans.

Now you may say: you were a free woman! this is America! you have the right to read anything you want and hang out with whomever you choose!

But what is right and what is reality are two different things.

I started working at the comic store after running away from home when I was 16. I ran away from home because I was tired of getting beaten up by my mom's boyfriends. Misogyny and me, we go waaaaaay back.

The owner of the comic store was a friend of my late father. He was a middle-aged man, a bit on the grotesque side but always quick with a joke and generous with his customers. I was so thrilled to get this job. As a comic fan, working behind the counter was like winning a trip to Disneyland. I had finally made it.

Here is a quick picture of what the fan culture was like in the early 90s. Speculation was in full swing, and everybody was as greedy as fuck. There were a lot of collectors that weren't fans at all but were simply buying up "hot comics." Which was great for my boss. Unfortunately, what was not so great was that comic thievery and shoplifting was at an all-time high. It was not uncommon to hear of one big store in the city or another being heisted in the middle of the night, cleaned out. My boss felt he hadn't a lot to worry about, however, because he was the first one to admit that the place was a scummy little hole in the wall.

Into this scummy little hole in the wall trotted the most bizarre cast of characters ever to grace the fandom. There was the old-time cartoon animator who spent his declining years buying high-ticket Golden Age items, taking care of his mother, and smelling of pee. There was the fast-talking heroin-addict who constantly came in looking to trade choice pop-culture memorabilia for quick cash. There was the short, mild-mannered big-time comic collector in the rumpled two-piece velvet suit who thought that putting peanut butter on his dick for his cat to lick off did not qualify as animal abuse. There was the fat, mentally-challenged older lady who would pull her top up and shake her boobies for a quarter; it should be noted that she was not a comic collector, but rather just a piece of the "local color."

In essence, I was working on the "Howard Stern Show."

One of my co-workers was a soft-spoken Latino man who I was never quite sure was mentally-challenged or just really really innocent. We're talking like Forrest Gump. My boss always made jokes about "spic this" and "Wetback that" and I marvelled at how my co-worker never got angry, never got angry for being called a "dumb spic." He would just smile shyly and act like he didn't really understand what was being said. He will become a footnote to this entire story, so just tuck him in the back of your mind.

I felt a certain degree of "protection" from my boss, that kept unwanted "admirers," mostly adults and a few who were middle-aged, at bay.

So when he told me in private that I sexually aroused him, that I made him "hard," I was completely devastated. I cried.

My boss acted like he didn't understand why I was crying. He said he assumed that as a "single girl living by herself" that I was "open to this sort of thing." Mind you, he was a friend of my dad. But really, considering the caliber of person that frequented his store, was this scumbaggery such a big surprise? As a naive teen with no parental supervision and no security, the answer is -- yes, it was a complete surprise. This guy was like my uncle.

What followed was a textbook case of how a patriarchal society deals with troublemaking females.

1. Tell the victim good-naturedly, "now you just keep this between you and me, okay?"

2. To cover your own ass, tell other people that your victim is a)crazy, b)a nympho, c)a liar, or c)a crazy nympho liar. In my case, this jerk went around telling others, including his own wife, that I sexually came on to him.

3. Punish your victim in some way so you can feel better about her rejecting you.

When I came into work the next day following the incident, my boss told me gravely, in front of the rest of the store, that a set of trading cards were missing by my work station and that he suspected I did it. Since he couldn't trust me anymore, I had to leave.

Of course, what type of trading cards were they?

The theoretically-named Gilgongo! Comics Superheroes series.

I kept waiting for somebody to defend me, but the rest of the men in the store just looked sheepish and away. Most had been recipients of my boss's generous nature for more years than I was alive. Though I considered some of these men as my friends, I simply couldn't tip the scales away from a guy that, in their scummy little hole-in-the-wall universe, was like a king.

So I left. Passively, stunned, not quite sure of what had just happened. Later that day, as I was walking home from grocery shopping, one big heavy bag in each fist, I had a delayed-reaction to the event and suddenly became filled with fury. I marched back to the store and slammed the door open.

"You...sonofabitch! You fucking told me that I sexually excited you! That I made your dick hard! I fucking trusted you! You fucking did this to punish me, you fucking scumbag motherfucker!"

He acted like he didn't know what I was talking about. Of course. Though at one point he reinterated his theory that since I was "a young single woman" I was "open" to that sort of thing.

I was 16.

I screamed at him for about 20 minutes, never once putting down my bags of groceries, my hands red and creased white by the bag handles. When it was over I stalked out of the store, turned around, and punched my fist into the plexiglas door, leaving a giant crack that extended from the "Yes we are open" sign to the faded Charlie's Angels Topps stickers near the bottom.

Soon after that I got what is known in the parlance as "a real job" and entered college. I was so burned by the experience in the store that I refused to read or buy any comics ever again.

Some time later, I ran into my quiet Forrest Gumpian ex co-worker. He said he was real sorry about what happened, but that he made sure to "take a lot this time" to punish my boss. I asked him what exactly he meant.

He invited me to the apartment he shared with his religious, working-class mom and dad. In his room were thousands upon thousands of expensive comics. My old boss's comics. Stacks of mylared Silver and Golden Age books. All the "speculator" titles, Marvels and Images and Valiants bagged and boarded and stacked to the ceiling. In the second bunk of the bed set he shared with his late brother were row after row of choice books, some in multiples of twos and threes, all lovingly sheathed in plastic.

"You see," he began to explain, "whenever he call me things like 'dumb spic,' 'retard,' things like that -- I take a book! Every time. So he say, 'you dumb retard,' and then I go, when he not looking, I take a book. Every time. Not so dumb a retard, am I?"

After years of not being able to turn a profit, the old comic store closed. It is now a 99 Cents store, though tomorrow it might be a cell-phone store, or a discount clothing outlet. All I know is that every once in a while, even if I don't need anything, I buy a dishrag or something from the place. Just to walk inside of it.