The Crazy. Part 1 - The Monolith

Laypeople often look at comic nerds as painfully shy, vaguely mutant-like recluses who have spent years carefully building comic-themed lairs in their mother’s basements where they can safely hoard their belongings away from other people, out of sunlight, and close to the fridge.

I'm not going to attempt to dispel this popular myth because, in many cases, it's actually true. However, writing a blog entry about the subterranean virgins that make up a chunk of the comic nerd demographic is an anthropological endeavour that will take some time. Believe me, I will get to this post in due time. However, for the time being, as the first of a series of entires, I am going to focus on a common trait all comic collectors possess - The Crazy.

Collecting comics is a lot like collecting bugs or eyeballs – you have to be a little bit nuts.

I am going volunteer myself as proof of this fact. However, before getting into the crazy, I'm going to briefly list some of the everyday things that make me mostly normal. Outside of comic collecting, I'm a pretty normal guy. I have a good job, take good care of myself, and am engaged to an amazing woman. Regarding the latter, it is important to note that my future wife does not collect or fully understand the appeal of comic books. That said, my bride-to-be has always lovingly supported my hobby and occasional (read: constant) bouts of comic fanaticism.

Okay. Let's get to The Crazy. Despite my apparent normalcy, when it comes to comics, I can admit to being nuts.

This is me on comic books - twitchy and a little paranoid.



That, or I'm oddly morbidly focused on minutiae which leads to incoherent tangents (ie. Why haven't I double bagged my signed comics? Why? Why? WHY!?... I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That's my dream; that's my nightmare...); like this guy.

This condemning, yet accurate portrait is the product of close to 20 years worth of collecting. As normal as I am now, my early high school years were not especially kind to me. A series of bad haircuts, volcanic acne and aviator glasses didn't exactly get me accepted by the cool kids, and my disinterest in school and mediocre grades didn't get me in with the bookworms. Between sports and chronic masturbation, I needed something to pass the time until I got to see my first set of real boobs, let alone kiss a girl, which, in my 13 year old mind, would change my life for the better, forever.

Yeah.

In any case, comic books always intrigued me and, soon enough, I started a small collection that I kept in my mother's basement, out of sunlight. Today, my collection is housed in a stainless steel tower (it's massive and awesome) and three satellite long boxes.

The primary focus of this instalment of "The Crazy" is my comic book tower, otherwise known as The Monolith.

Unlike the monolith from Kubrick's masterpiece, my comic monolith is not made of stone and did not come from the sky. Rather, my monolith is a black stainless steel filing cabinet that was delivered from Staples. However, much like the monolith in Space Odyssey, the flawless black cuboid that resides in my front hallway has amazing mind-altering capabilities. Also, my monolith is filled with comics, so Arthur C. Clarke can go fuck himself; may he rest in peace.

Back to the mind-altering powers of The Monolith.

Once upon a time, I was content to store my beloved collection in long boxes and store these boxes in a safe place (the back room). This year, in a somewhat inspired, but mostly random act, I decided to upgrade my storage facilities by purchasing what amounts to a pretty safe option for my books. Briefly, the new cabinet is not only functional and spacious but it provides me with a mold/fire/water-proof alternative to the ever popular long box.

Here's where the head fuck comes in. After the long and difficult migration to The Monolith, one of my carefully arranged rows of comics tipped over. Now, I'm the type of collector who goes ape-shit over a bent corner or misplaced staple, so you can imagine the meltdown I experienced when I found my books lying face-down at the bottom of the drawer. After some meticulous inspection, a bout of buyer's remorse, and a serious forehead slap, my comics were back in order and damage-free.

No harm, no foul. Right?

Wrong.

That night, in hushed tones, The Monolith ordered me to cut out my tongue with a pizza slicer.

Actually, it didn't.

However, from that point on, I've developed an interesting complex (read: phobia) where any regular household noise is actually the sound of my comic books tipping over or the cause of my comic books tipping.

I'm not kidding. Observe the power of The Monolith.

1. A whistling kettle? Oh shit. My comics just tipped.

2. A knock at the door? Did the minor tremor created by the knock ripple up the wall and tip my comics? Probably. No. Most definitely.

3. The cleaning lady? Did the cleaning lady forget to read my note about mopping the floor around The Monolith and hit it with the mop, thus tipping my comics? Yes. Oh fuck.

4. Sex? Sex creates a bigger tremor than a knock at the door... Dammit! I knew I should have gone with the headache excuse.

Yup, that about sums it. Admittedly, my condition has gotten better over the past few months. I don't check on my comics multiple times a day and have given up on the idea of learning Filipino in order to ensure the cleaning lady has gotten the message.

Will it ever go away? No. Probably not. Similar to "Odyssey's" herbivorous monkey tribe, I'm banking on natural evolution and divine intervention to solve my problem.