Tuesday, April 18, 2017

My Favourite Book, Part Two

Last time I talked about the first time I ever bought comics. I ended up with about one hundred and twenty of them and used them to figure out how comic books are constructed.

For the next few years, I added to my collection only in fits and starts. I wasn't much for whining, and my parents weren't much for giving into it, but I did persuade them, on occasion, to let me pick up a comic book from a supermarket spinner rack or the magazine shelf of a book store. These comics were selected opportunistically, picked out based on the colours on the cover and whether the movement caught my eye.

I mean, really.
So very cool. (I still
like the black costume
This being the 1980s, I ended up with a lot of Thor and Spiderman, which suited me just fine. Thor had plenty of action, Norse mythology and plots that arced long but that I could pick up easily if I missed a few issues, and Spiderman had terrible quips, interesting villains and an engaging secondary cast. It also felt strangely real in a way I honestly sometime found off-putting.

Peter Parker was a loser, yes, but he felt like someone I knew, or could know, and it made me uneasy about my life and the lives of my fellow nerds. Most of us were just barely holding onto our dignity and social standing. If one of us was bitten by, I don't know, a radioactive seagull and drawn into a complex web of costumed mobsters while trying to maintain a secret identity, it'd be overwhelming.

Before you say it out loud, yes, I recognize that I worried about some weird things as a kid.

Anyhow, my comic book collecting was sporadic at best and as time went on, my collection began to fall apart, literally and figuratively.

I learned quickly that it was unwise to take a comic book to school. The front cover would wear off just getting carried around in a backpack, and could fall apart completely before you got home, assuming that a well-meaning teacher didn't take it from you beforehand. They could go to birthday parties and like, but other kid's mothers might not be keen on their kid's friends bring them over.
They really did kill a
character, too. Stayed dead
for, like a decade, too.

Even just keeping in my room wasn't enough because some of my more pious friends took it upon themselves to save me from the danger of comic books. That's how my latest find - a long white cardboard box made for holding comics - ended up in the closet. Which, in the interests of full confession, is the real reason I cleaned out my closet in the summer before 3rd grade. You're welcome, mom.

I didn't stop collecting, though, and slowly I built up a decent-sized collection. It was mostly Marvel, although I had a soft spot for 80s Batman, the Dark Knight Detective. I also picked up Legion of Superheroes whenever I could. It had the cheesiest plots and dumbest hero names, but there was something compelling about it. Tales of the Legion of Superheroes #329 probably ranks in the top 10 of my favourite comics of all time.

Absolutely no regrets - could
probably do another blog entry on
this game's impact on my DMing. Hrm.
Still, though, it was rare to get two comics in sequence, and I didn't have much money, having saved up and spent most of it on a Nintendo and a bunch of games. At the time, it seemed basically impossible to find a steady source of comics. It's not like there were stores that specialized in selling them.

My next big moment was buying a comic book with my own money. My choice was odd: The Official Handbook of the Marvel Universe, Volume 2, issue 3.

I wish I could say that I bought it because the content was intellectually stimulating, but the truth is that it was a honkin' 64 pages long, and the front cover showed a mostly naked woman with clouds covering her naughty bits.
I am a shallow person.

Of course, the titillation factor was short-lived because, as other readers of this title know, this is basically a reference book for the Marvel Universe. I mean, it's right in the title, so it shouldn't have surprised me but, here it was: 64 pages of dry narratives of a superhero's life, accompanied by diagrams of their equipment and how they work. No, really. Have you ever wanted to know how Daredevil's grappling hook baton works? Well, even if you didn't, you'd know if you, too, had OHOTMUDE vol. 3. (That's what the cool kids call it.)

There was something else about the Official Handbooks, though. They presented the information in an almost journalistic style. The tragic circumstances that lead up to Daredevil taking up his cowl were just . . . delivered, almost without context, which enabled me to contextualize the events in a different way, and see them in a more subjective way

That's really the only problem I have with comics as a medium. With the exception of a few especially daring creators, the events that happen in a comic book are pretty objective, but presented in still frames that don't always give all of the information necessary to get the objective truth, and that can be problematic when you're someone like me, someone who has trouble understanding context.

Plus, statistics! Who doesn't want to know that Doctor Druid has the physical strength of an individual who engages in limited regular exercise, and the exact number of pounds of TNT that are equivalent to a blast from Cyclops' eye-beams? This nerd, right here.

I collection the Handbooks to this day, as anyone who followed my blog during my, "making Marvel RPG characters," phase can attest.

In addition to my buying it with my own money, the Handbook represented still another chapter in my comic book collecting, though: I bought it in a comic book store.

Saturday, April 15, 2017

My Favourite Book, Part One

Over the years I've read blog posts and listened to interviews where famous people talk about their favourite books. I am not famous, nor am I likely to be, but I do have a favourite book: New Mutants Annual #2. No, I'm not kidding, my favourite book is a comic book. It's not as weird as it might seem. Let me start a few years before it came out, though.

When I was a young boy I read. A lot. If I wasn't in class or eating dinner or watching TV, I was reading, and sometimes I'd read while doing those things as well. I read precociously, voraciously and indiscriminately, simply moving my way through the written page like a lawnmower through fresh grass. I read some classics, sure, but mostly because my dad gave them to me to read. I really didn't care what I read so long as it had characters and a story.

I like comic books well enough and had a small pile of Looney Tunes comics, one for each time I'd been home sick and my mom or dad had to swing by the Shopper's Drug Mart for Tylenol or cough syrup or what not. I actually had three copies of the same comic from a time when I cycled through the same illness three times in a month. I didn't complain about it, mostly because the illness meant that I couldn't concentrate on reading without running the risk of throwing up.

My heroes. No, seriously, these
guys make the Hardy Boys look
like poseurs. Not that it's hard.
I like these comics all right, and some of them were ever pretty good, but they had a sort of sameness to the stories, and they were always self-contained and rather short. It wasn't anything I couldn't get from The Three Investigators, and comics forced on me their interpretation of what things looked like.

The summer before grade two, we went on a daytrip to the beach at Port Dover. My sister and I skipped rocks, ran in the water, ate ice cream and dragged our parents along with us. I don't think either of us was aware of it at the time, but with the perspective of time, I know that they'd planned on a quiet day at the beach for themselves and a busy one for us. My mom brought three books, my dad brought one, and they bought new chairs for the occasion, very comfortable ones that went basically unused.

When we left, Carolyn and I were all tuned up on summer sun and sugar while mom and dad were ready to collapse into a coma. Driving out from the beach, they saw one final chance to drain our vital energies: Port Dover was having a citywide yard sale.

They gave us ten dollars each, told my sister to watch her brother, and let us loose. I was eight, Carolyn was twelve, we knew the area, which was a large, open park. But yes, my parents let their children out of their sight for about half an hour on a balmy Saturday afternoon. Clearly, they are terrible, wicked, sociopaths. That address, on with our story.

My sister and I parted company the moment it was feasible, of course, and I ended up in my natural habitat - surrounded by books. At first, it seemed like a magical place, with books stacked high on four or five large tables, but rummaging through them it became apparent that this was a very boring place. These were "grown-up" books. Mysteries, mostly, with some classics among them, side-by-side with Clive Cussler knockoffs and romance novels. Absolutely no sci-fi or fantasy, and nary a Choose Your Own Adventure, not even one I'd read before.

What I found beneath the tables was intriguing, though: plastic wrapped packages of comic books.

Cunningly wrapped so you could only see the back covers, each pack promised 10 comics for a dollar. They smelled vaguely like seaweed and I could tell about a third of them didn't even have covers. My dad already complained that my room smelled "a bit funny," and I'd heard from my friends that their parents said that "good Christians don't read comic books."

I counted out ten packages and handed the crisp ten dollar bill to the proprietor. Wordlessly, he added two more packages and gave me a box for it all.

When I got back to my parents, my arms tired from my burden, my dad just looked at me and smiled, and my mom didn't seem to notice at all. Even my sister, who had snagged a bedraggled stuffed animal and some equally battered plastic toy, looked approvingly at the sheer size of my find.

That green puffer-fish
still kinda creeps me
I had determined that I would not open any of my prizes in the car, even though my dad let me take two of them in the seat with me. To be honest, I just didn't want to share. Temptation overrode selfishness, though, and about two minutes after we hit the road, I opened one of them.

Disappointingly, this one was mostly Looney Tunes comics with some Disney thrown in, along with a Superman that looked dreadfully weird. One comic, though, showed a white-armoured figure with a strange, boxy helmet grappling with some strange undersea creatures. I presumed he was the character in the title: Rom. I was glad I got to that one first.

When I was a kid, my parents and I had an interesting relationship when it came to the things I read. They never banned a book, so far as I can remember, but they reserved the right to read them first and decide if I was ready for them. My father, a schoolteacher and a very well-read man, would take the lead on this and did something I've never heard of another parent doing before or since: When I got to the age where he thought I could now handle a book, he'd give it to me. He was usually right. Usually.

The problem is that there were, as now, pressures on parents to police their kid's lives, and nowhere moreso than in conservative Christian churches where, in the 1980s, it seemed like every kind of media every created could drive a child into the arms of Satan, and was designed to do so by a conspiracy of liberal devil worshipers. My parents were never greatly impacted by this "Satanic Panic," but I know they must've felt the temptation to fall in line and ban Transformers (the Decepticon symbol was occultic), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (created by animal worshipers) and The Care Bears (witchcraft!) wholesale, but they persisted in actually engaging with the things I liked.

They noticed the same thing that, of course, all us kids noticed - that while there were indeed dark and evil forces at work in these stories, the dark and evil forces were almost inevitably the bad guys, the people opposed by the good guys.

Anyhow, Rom was a weird comic, combining high-tech sci-fi gadgetry with weird aliens, hidden cults, mysticism and Shakespearean levels of ennui and existentialism. And while I only had that one issue of it at the time, I immediately fell in love and wanted more.

I fell asleep on the drive and woke up the next morning with a box with one hundred and twenty comics in it, one hundred and ten of them still a complete mystery. One bowl of cereal later, and a perfunctory nod at my parents, and I was down in the midst of them.

I started by dividing them up by structural integrity. Some were in excellent shape, others a bit battered, and some so beaten up they didn't even have all of their pages, so it seemed like a good idea.

Three packages in, I switched tactics. Rom, it seemed, was only the tip of the iceberg. There were some really weird comics in there, and it soon became clear that if my parents decided to judge these books by their covers, it probably would not be a favourable judgement.

What. The actual. Heck.
The division was simpler now: books anyone could read, books my parents could read and probably not like, but let me keep, and last books that my parents should never see, if possible. This last category included a comic that I decided that I didn't need to see either. I don't remember much about it other than that it was a different size than all of the others, and the content made me uncomfortable. I disposed of it personally, taking it to the garbage can in front of the local Becker's.

There were six or seven more Rom comics and fifty or sixty others.

The Defenders featured prominently, with about a dozen issues. In one, a group of baddies called the Headmen . . . well, look at that cover and tell me what happens in that one because I honestly never figured it out. There were some with Gargoyle, and three issues in a row where Damion Hellstrom, the Son of Satan, is trying to save a small town from the clutches of demonic forces.

Looks legit.
There was also an issue of The X-Men. I'd seen an older boy reading an X-Men comic on the bus and asked him about it. With the arrogance of a middle schooler, he told me it was "too sophisticated" for me. And here, now, was my very own X-Men comic, which took place . . . at a circus? The X-Men worked in a circus? It made a kind of sense at the time.

I would eventually figure out how to identify comics suitable as entry points into a series, but this was a skill that took some time to develop. I just read them all, cover to cover, again and again. To this day, I can recall many individual panels and successions of panels, complete with dialogue.

Longer story arcs were the order of the day, so I only caught glimpses of what was really going on, but that lead to something fascinating - because I couldn't understand the big picture, the little ones made a lot more sense. I might not understand why Thor and The Radioactive Man are especially displeased to meet up with one another in The Avengers, but I learned how to read the cues to determine that they have a history, whether through dialogue or the way the story's framed.

It was like learning a new language, but one I didn't know and had to learn without a teacher. It was marvelous.

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

The Long Party

(This is a first draft, a quick little writing exercise that turned out decently enough to share. All errors are unintended.)

The party began in the expected and usual way - I invited over a few friends, and they invited a few others, and soon we had about a dozen people in a house that can easily host four, eight max. Full to bursting, in other words, and with more people expected.

Luckily, my father-in-law had stopped by to take a look at one of the cars and overheard me talking to Christy about what we could do to make room for more people.

“I have a secret technique,” he said. “I don’t use it often, but it’s very useful for things like this. Do you want me to use it?”

I asked him to, not even sure what he was talking about. He walked to the door to the shed and made a series of half-moons on its metallic surface, half-moons that left behind a brief lavender glow before fading.

“Open the door,” he said. I did, and now the shed door opened up into my in-laws kitchen. Amazed, I went to close the door so I could open it again, and he stayed my hand. “That’s the one rule,” he said. “You have to leave the doors open until the end of the spell, or the whole thing ends.”

A thought occurred to me. I grinned.

“How often can you do this?”

The party was well into its sixth hour and showed no signs of slowing. Our apartment was linked to my in-laws, my dad’s house, my sister’s apartment, the house of a friend down in Lawrence and from there out to half a dozen other places.

The unfinished basement I spent most of my senior year in, studying, listening to the Tragically Hip. My old dorm room. The house where I learned how to study the Bible and how to make a jam-stuffed Brie dip. My aunt’s gallery. A seemingly endless series of apartments and houses of friends, old and new, stretching out through space in a way that was utterly impossible but glorious. The topography, though, paled compared to the people.

Bill Meyers stood over a pot of simmering sauce, arguing the finer points of ragu with my fourth grade teacher. Curtis Graham stood off at the side with Dr. Leax, my old academic advisor, and Elizabeth. Bill Desmarais and Sean Palmer were lost in thought in an intense game of Carcassone while my brother-in-law, John, sat in the third place, still asking questions. My dad and father-in-law and four or five of their friends just wandered from place to place, admiring the cars in the various garages.

People exchanged glasses of wine, beer and spirits from a dozen different countries, traded books of recipes and poems and art, raided closets, showed off treasures and mementos. No one went hungry. Not a one. A hundred throats sang, often singing a hundred different songs, but all reaching together toward a strange and beautiful harmony. Jazz, opera, samba, rock, punk, seemingly every genre represented somewhere.

Me? I was caught in an endless cycle of meeting people. Some I knew only by screenname, some I knew by name but had never actually met. Adam Bowker introduced me to his family, Gina to her roller derby team. I met the families and children of all the people I knew from high school and college, but hadn’t actually seen in years. Dave and Christy Sadecki and I got in a game of hearts. I took a moment to cry on Kathie Brenneman’s shoulder, and she on mine.

Each door was held open. Some tied back, others blocked with a rock or more formal doorstopper, but each entryway was wide and people passed through and spoke to each other easily and happily.

It might have been a day, it might have been a week, but gradually we began the slow process of disassembling the party. Dishes, books, movies and belongings had been passed across entire continents and, my mom joked, you know how pricy shipping is these days. Jackets and sweaters had been thrown over chairs, mostly in the places in Israel, Chile and the like. Dogs, cats and other pets had moved around as well, necessitating a thorough search of every nook and cranny of this highly sociable ant farm-like network of dwelling places. And, of course, everyone wanted to make sure that lawns were cleared, floor vacuumed and the like.

Finally, though, everyone was satisfied that they had at least most of the stuff they’d started with. Most people had a few extra things, too, gifts from people they’d never met before. After a final flurry of people entering contact information into their cellphones, I closed the door to the shed, and slumped against it, exhilarated and exhausted.

“I’d very much like to do that again,” I said, my forehead cooling against the metal.

“Of course,” said the voice behind me. It was supposed to be my father-in-law, but I realized that it was a different voice entirely, one that was quite familiar to me. “The party never really ends, you know.”

“True,” I said, standing up straight and turning around. The figure that was no longer my father-in-law was smiling.

“They’re always with you. Always,” he said. “Always,” he repeated, as I began to drift back to consciousness.

Monday, February 13, 2017

Ric Garland Is Wrong

On Sunday, my pastor, Ric Garland suggested that we should treat our wives like fine china. Nah. Gotta say you’re wrong on that one, Ric, at least for Christy and I. My wife is a casserole dish.

Wait, wait, I mean that as the best kind of compliment because, see, she’s an old Corningware casserole dish.

. . .

Y’all aren’t foodies, huh? Okay, let me explain.

See, Corningware casserole dishes are made of a compound that’s extremely resistant to thermal shock - you can take it right out of the fridge and put it on a hot stove and it’ll stay together just fine. Try that trick with a glass bowl and . . . well, don’t, actually, because if you’re reading my blog, then you’re probably someone I don’t want covered in glass splinters.

So, why an old Corningware casserole? Well, the older ones had a property that the modern ones don’t - they actually got stronger the more you shocked them. That’s right, the more often they were moved from cold to hot and back again, the more resistant they became, to the point that you can take them from the freezer to an open flame and they won’t so much as pucker.

To make this stuff - it’s called “pyroceramic” - you have to heat it a hot fire with just the right mix of chemicals. And, I mean, hot, the kind of temperature that cookware just ordinarily shouldn’t even get near.

And that’s why my wife is an old Corningware casserole dish. She’s been through the fire and come out the other side stronger for it, and every time she’s tested, she gets stronger still. It has been a privilege to spend 20-plus years seeing her forged and forged and re-forged again without becoming brittle or wearing thin.

Perhaps somewhat coincidentally, she also makes a really fine casserole.