Later On, Maybe We Can Talk Sometime. You Know, If You Don't Hate Me.
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There's one thing that I've wanted to talk about in this column, and it just so happens to be something that is full-on embarrassing, Too-Much-Information-style commentary, but if I'm reading the calendar correctly—and according to some other comic book pundits, I am—then the official time is now or never. On the plus side, as soon as I exhaust myself of this topic I'll be free to focus on my normal thinking habits, which are completely tied up in the different ways I'd like to see Shane Vendrell execute Vic Mackey, as well as my intense loathing for those moving sidewalk platforms in
Mega Man 9. (With occasional breaks to earn a living, maintain a healthy marriage, etc.)
Like, I'd imagine, most people my age with an interest in comics, I've got a bookshelf that holds all my various trade paperbacks and graphic novels, and serial collections, and... look, comics that don't fit in a white cardboard box. You and I both know there are too many names for these things. Comics. The kinds-that-have-spines. Now, if we actually lived in that Nick Hornby/Chuck Klosterman fantasy world where an individual could be judged, not by the content of their character, but by the contents of whatever they obsessively spend their discretionary income on, then hey: I'm a pretty well rounded guy, with some Fabulous Taste. There's some Hernandez, Carl Barks, D. Clowes, a heap of Kurtzman and an insane amount of Herriman. Super-heroes? How about some Kirby? Lee? Morrison? Moore? Hey, let's be real: there's some Jack Cole in there—scratch that, there's TONS.
But if you take a magnifying glass—which, since it's my ego-fulfilling fantasy, you would never get the chance to do—then you're going to notice one glaring statement on my character as, not just a human being, but an Arrogant Comic Book Pundit.[1] With the power of that magnifying glass (or monocle, if you're so inclined, Mr. Foyle) you're going to notice that there's a trade paperback that doesn't look like any of the others, and that's because it looks like my copy has gone through a tire-fire before being shoved down the pants of a marathon runner at the first mile marker. It's a comic that has been, for lack of a better or more accurate term, made
sweet love to. It's a comic that's been read, re-read, loaned out, and then read again. On top of that, it's not even in the Comics Journal "Best 100 Comics of the Century." Even worse: it's a super-hero comic.
Before you get too far off that seat in anticipation, let me kick the chair: it's
Batman: A Death In The Family, the third printing, from 1989. The cover price is $2.95, and yes, this being the end of October, we are entering the four-month festivity that is that story's 20th anniversary.
I've spent more of my wasted, miserable life reading
A Death In The Family then I did deciding whether or not to propose to my current wife. (Admittedly, that's not much of a comparison, because I pretty much knew I was going to marry her as soon as she admitted to really liking Scott Walker's
The Drift.[2]) So yeah, if I were to run a "pick your favorite comic based on how many times you've read it" contest, I'd be the guy who has to say that the classic "Let's Beat Robin With A Crowbar, Suge Knight Style" is my ticket to ride. I'm not ashamed to admit it.[3] I was crazy for that comic when I was a kid. And while my taste for standard super-heroics, stunt character deaths and angst-ridden Bruce Waynes may have…let's say "lessened," it's impossible, even now, to take a look at those pages and not remember the palpable sense of joy that I got out of that book. It's the sort of enjoyment that I'm glad to say I grew out of—just like a 15 year old crying over a "break-up" while obsessively listening to bad U2 songs doesn't truly comprehend heartbreak, I don't subscribe to the belief that there's anything that grown up or impressive when a 30-something talks about a comic book as if it can trump all of the amazing and mature pleasures of being in a great relationship, or taking pride in your work, or the chance to sit down with your parents and have real adult conversations.
It's not that comics aren't exciting to read anymore—obviously, I wouldn't be writing about them for comiXology if they weren't—but no, even the best comic can't emotionally compare to the excitement of being an adult.[4] If anything, that sense of perspective makes that time period that I fondly look back on now that much better. It's fun when you're a kid, to find that comic—or piece of music, or skateboard, or, if you're really awesome, bottle of Boone's Farm—and remember how pure it was to enjoy something with such zealotry and relish. I can still, to this day, remember how excited I was by the page where Bruce Wayne looks at his wrinkled costume laying on a hotel bed and says, "Maybe it'd be best to let Superman handle this? That way you won't do something you'll regret for the rest of your life." And then, on that same page—although I always remember them as separate, individual frames that I could only see one at a time—he shakes his fist at me, and says "
But He Murdered Jason." And then the costume is gone, and so is Bruce. He's gone, gone to stop the Joker, to stand between him and—okay, that's ridiculous, but yeah, between the Joker and a laughing gas attack on the entire United Nations. When I was a kid though—and yeah, even now—those pages burned their way into my head, and from there on out, that's what Bruce looked like. The Batman who drops a vague threat of murder on the Joker when he leaves the room—"…makes what I have to do a lot
easier"--that's the Batman who sticks with me, even now that I've read what are, admittedly, "better" comic books featuring the character.
It would be nice to be one of those people whose first experience of raw comic-book-related joy was with something that's "respectable." Of course, here's the thing: it also would be a complete lie. Part of what brought about my desire to find out more about comics, to read things like
Gasoline Alley,
From Hell, or
Plastic Man, was the hope that I could find something that got me as excited as I was all the times I read about Batman "breaking a couple of knuckles" along Superman's fat stupid face.[5] But you can't capture lightning in a bottle twice, and you always, always, remember your first time.
Unless it only lasted about seven minutes and you drove home weeping. Then you better come up with a believable lie.
Notes:
[1] That's my preferred term for what it is I do, you and Roger Ebert can be critics if you want.
[2] Either that or when we walked out of the Matt Dillon Crash and she said "God that was a piece of shit. You didn't like that, did you?"
[3] Yes I am.
[4] Which isn't to say I subscribe to the belief that you can't "love comics," you can, I do, but I'm really glad I don't love them in that creepy obsessive way I did when I was a kid and got terribly upset because Vibe died. It's all about perspective. Of course, you, dear reader, could be the type who can cry at running shoe commercials, in which case: God be with you.
[5] God I hate your stupid lying hypocrite face Superman I hate it so much I HATE IT
Tucker Stone's writing can be found in print from time to time. He currently blogs about comics at The Factual Opinion and Savage Critics.
This Ship Is Totally Sinking is © Tucker Stone, 2010
