On September 21, 2012, Rob Corddry and I had one of our periodic ManCalls™, and the topic du jour was my newfound obsession with comics.
Reading back, I kinda can’t believe the crazy impact Rob’s writer and series recommendations had on what I’m totally obsessed with now.
God bless him. God bless him hard.
Below are very important (and really hastily typed) Markdown notes from a year-old phone call.
Regarding my comics pr0n.
It’s a completely understandable note, and I take it with all humility. Still, here’s the thing:
I’ve never paid for sex, I’ve never done needle drugs, and I’ve never lost more than a hundred bucks or so on Blackjack.
But, each one of these dumb comic books bring me real joy.
Researching them, buying them, reading them, ““collecting”” them. Knowing that each mindful Wednesday afternoon purchase—in-person at an actual brick-and-mortal store—supports a bunch of really good people (excluding Diamond Distributors)? The whole ongoing transaction makes me feel very happy.
And, yeah, putting each one of the little funnybooks into its own unnecessary bag with its own unnecessary board—and, then deliberately fitting each one into exactly the right place inside exactly the right unnecessary white cardboard box? It all brings me joy.
As with the notional new car, I know and accept that every one of these asinine 3 to 4 dollar purchases loses nearly all of its theoretical value the second I drive it off the lot. But, that’s not why I do it.
Truthfully, the bags and the boards and the boxes and the everything are not really about their potential value to others. It’s about their actual value to me.
So, until, I reach the point where I see more value from hitting twenty-one, chasing the dragon, or compensating some anonymous lady-person to perfunctorily jack my mean bone, I’m more than happy to lavish unnecessary love on these financially-useless paper bagatelles.
Like toothpaste, toilet paper, and soap, I don’t buy comic stuff because it’s valuable to others; I buy it because it’s valuable to me.