Recently I joined a Facebook group called “Old Guys Who Love Old Comics.”
Because, well . . . I am, and I do.
What's not to love about old comics? Readable stories. Wonderful hand-drawn panels. That smell when you pull a 40-year-old comic from a plastic bag.
That’s the sweet smell of nostalgia.
But old guy? Really? When did I qualify to be a member of that group?
Despite my mildly arthritic fingers hurting a little as I type this post, I don’t envision myself an old man. Hell, I don’t even think of myself as a middle-aged man. Especially when we’re talking about my lifetime of loving comics.
It seems just a few years ago that I first spent 25 cents for the latest issue of Superman at the local Ben Franklin store. We lived several miles outside the city limits, so going to town was a big deal. Whoever I was with -- usually my parents, but sometimes my grandparents -- usually made the trip special. We'd hit whatever store we drove in for first, then walk down to the five and dime for some candy and some comic books.
I'd read the titles in the back seat on the drive home, all the while hoping I didn't get car sick and puke all over my books. If I still had comics to read when I got home I'd take a short hike into the woods, find a soft spot under a tree, and read until I was finished.
That would have been around 1975.
46 years ago.
I am, and I do.
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