I had a consistent comic book reading routine each summer during the late 70s.
First, I'd roll the titles up into a tight tube, then stick them into the back right pocket of my Lee jeans. After making sure my parents were in another part of the house, I'd scurry up the short ladder that led to the unfinished attic of our house. Two small pieces of plywood were up there, along with a small lamp and a pillow. I'd lie flat on my stomach, look carefully over each comic cover, and determine in which order each would be read.
I saved what I suspected was the best story for last.
Able to leap tall buildings? Superman titles were always my first read. I liked the character, but his god-like powers made it impossible for me to relate.
The Fastest Man Alive? Loved the art, but Flash stories were formulaic and predictable. His comic was second.
The Dark Knight? Hadn't been created yet. There was still debate about whether Bruce Wayne was "Batman," or "The Batman," and many of us were questioning why the yellow bat-sign on his chest didn't serve as a better bullseye for criminals with guns. His title was third.
The Man Without Fear? Daredevil was read last.
"Daredevil" writers told gritty stories that felt as if they could happen in real life. Organized crime, prostitutes, underdog lawyers and journalists trying to carry out social justice. I savored the stories and waited impatiently for the next issue to hit the newsstand.
I felt the same way binge watching the new Netflix series that opened April 10, 2015. It is, in my opinion, the best comic book adaption to hit a small screen.
I don't want Season 1 to end.