Thursday, September 29, 2005

Another Piece of My Childhood Passes


Jerry Juhl, one of the founders of the Muppets and their longtime head writer and gagman, dies this past Monday. You'll be missed, Jerry. And thank you. Posted by Picasa

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Graham Crackers Comics and Why They Suck

Man, I used to love reading comics. It started off slowly; every week, my mother and I would go grocery shopping at Jewel, and I would get to buy one comic--usually Amazing Spider-Man or Uncanny X-Men, or a Star comic like Peter Porker, the Spectacular Spider-Ham (hey, when you're a kid, a pig dressed up as Spider-Man is pretty fucking funny)--along with a Watchamacallit or a Rolo, and a generic can of strawberry soda (when there was such a thing). As I got slightly older, I started going hardcore into comic collecting. I found out about a comic book store in Naperville called Graham Cracker Comics, and I started heading there every week to buy the new issues of my comics. I enjoyed this relationship for a long time, mostly because I didn't know of any other comic book stores in the area.

Well, as time went on Graham Crackers expanded, buying these other stores I didn't know about and turning them into other Graham Crackers stores. This chain was started by Jamie Graham, and having met him and been served by him as a customer, let me tell you one thing: Jamie Graham is a prick. He basically started this as a way to subsidize his habit of collecting vast numbers of Golden Age comics, and has no real interest in customers save for the constant presence of their money.

Well, let's not cut to 1989, the year the speculator boom completely fucked up the comic book industry. Thanks to superstar artists like Todd McFarlane and Rob Liefeld, comics were no longer for teenagers and children; they were now something hip. And with the Batman movie coming out, most of the stories about comic book centered on the incredible worth of these things. See, old issues were worth a LOT of money, because they were so rare; after all, most people threw out their comics eventually (or, more often, their mothers did), and that rarity made them valuable. Suddenly, every idiot thought his comics were going to be worth a ton of money some day, and the comic book stores were flooded with geeks who wanted to jump on the bandwagon.

Well, the comics industry responded with multiple covers or gimmick covers, which drove prices up anyway, but the market was so flooded with this crap that nothing was worth anything anymore. Plus, comics were now attempting to be "cool" and "hip," rather than telling good stories. It was a bleak decade or so in comics, despite the occasional Warren Ellis or Greg Rucka. (As a side note, the comic book industry is falling into this idiot mentality once again, and once again I've responded by curbing much of my habit.)

Well, there were so many people buying comics that Graham Crackers responded by creating the Collector's Club. If you joined, they would pull your comics every week and hold them for you, along with any other special issues or merchandise you asked for. This sounded good, but I was still in high school when it came along, and I didn't have a blank check or a credit card number to leave with them. Eventually, though, someone let me join, mostly because I used to come in every week and they knew I was a loyal customer and would buy my comics every week. It was great.

So, this arrangement continued for years, until I quit my job in 2001 and decided to go to college. I didn't have money for a couple of months, but I would come in every week and explain my situation to the manager, and he was cool about it. I wasn't the type of person who ordered a lot of stuff and didn't buy it; I always bought everything that I had on my pull list or ordered specially. I was a loyal customer, and the manager of the shop knew it.

But Jamie Graham... fucking Jamie Graham didn't give a shit. He saw all the stuff I had on hold and kicked me right out of the club. No explanation, no chance to plead my case--just get the fuck out. Me, a loyal customer for 15 years, a loyal Club member for half a decade. Thanks for nothing. I basically got kicked out of the Club for always buying my stuff, and I was bitterly disappointed that the chain I had been so loyal to had thrown away my business without a second thought.

So, I moved to DeKalb and, lo and behold, there's a Graham Crackers out here. I know the guy who runs it, too, because he had been at the Wheaton store I used to shop at. He's not a guy I like to deal with on a business level, and I'm sure I annoy him, too. But, what the hell, at least there was still a place that I could go to every week and get my comics. Well, most of my comics.

See, this is why Graham Crackers Comics sucks vast tracts of ass; many of the comics I get are ordered in such a low number that they don't have any left for the rack. They give first preference, of course, to the Club, and then treat you like you're a fucking idiot for not being in the Club when you're complaining that you couldn't get the new issue of Plastic Man or Dork Tower. But I'm not allowed IN the fucking Club, so I can't get my fucking comics. Thanks for absolutely nothing.

Well, now that the new semester has started at NIU and DeKalb is flooded with new students again, Graham Crackers has many new people who moved their Club memberships here, and apparently a ton of them get Previews, because it's never on the rack. Previews is a wonderful catalog put out every month by Diamond Distribution that stores use to order their stock from. Graham Crackers gets several copies so that people like me--who want to plan their spending two months in advance--can get, well, previews of every comic coming out two months from now. It's one of the things I really look forward to getting every month, like a kid when the new toy catalog comes right before Christmas.

And today, for the third month in a row, there were no issues of Previews for the rack.

"No Previews?" I asked the manager.

"No Previews," he said simply with no explanation whatsoever. After a minute he asked me about a comic I was looking for.

"You already found it for me," I told him.

"I did? I'm awesome."

"Well, if you were that awesome you'd have Previews," I told him.

"Well, if I were that awesome, I'd let you back in the Club so you could get Previews when it comes out," he responded.

And that was the breaking point. I just couldn't fucking take the bullying of Graham Crackers Comics anymore. They hoard everything, and when you don't get what you want, they make you feel like an asshole for not being part of their exclusive group. They take boxes that candy bars or cards come in, and they sell the boxes to you for twice the cost of the contents if you express any interest in them. They all have stocks of pirated videos and CDs, and they regard anyone who looks at them as intellectually inferior morons who might purposely try and get them in trouble. The open and friendly atmosphere of a great comic book store (like Unicorn Comics of Villa Park, Illinois) is replaced by something angry and scared that bullies you into submission rather than welcoming you in. Enough is enough.

From now on I'll get my comic books by mail order, and that'll curb my impulse buying. Graham Crackers has chased away my business forever. There are websites that offer Diamond's discounts if you order early enough, and once a month a box will come in the mail.

It beats the shame of self-degradation that goes along with stepping into Graham Crackers, anyway.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

The Downstairs Saga Continues

A while back, I complained about the girls who live downstairs and how they complained about our bird feeder. Well, one of the little darlings came upstairs on Saturday night to warn us that they were having a party that night.

"Um, if we make too much noise downstairs, please let us know. I promise, we'll turn everything off if it's too loud." She seemed a little desperate, and I couldn't figure out why she was so anxious, until she suddenly said: "We had the cops called on us before, and we don't want to get in trouble with management again, so we're just warning everyone."

Funnily enough, I had forgotten that I had called the cops on them back about the first week they moved in. They like to sit on the back stairs (right underneath my window) with a couple of different guys and talk and joke and laugh very, very loudly. I tried to be cool the first time it happened, but the second time it didn't start until something like 3:00 in the morning (it's illegal to make noise after midnight in DeKalb, and besides, Becca gets up for work at six). Apparently, the girls downstairs have yet to realize that I'm the one who reported it.

So, now they come upstairs and ask me to tell them if I have a problem, rather than call the authorities directly. Which is ironic, since that's exactly what pissed me off earlier this month: they hid behind the curtain of authority and complained directly to the management about my bird feeders rather than tell me if they had a problem or not. I know this is the kind of thing that little college girls away from their parents don't remember, but it takes a lot of guts to come up and ask your neighbor for the same courtesy that you once denied him.

God, this would be a wonderfully vengeful story if I had actually called the cops on them that night. But, we turned on the stereo in the bedroom and managed to sleep through their party. But I have a free out now, don't I? Because, when she asked me to please be courteous, I simply said: "Oh, sure. Thanks for letting us know in advance. No problem." Which means, of course, that the next time I do call the cops, they won't think it's me.

Man, I can't wait for next time.

Monday, September 26, 2005

More Sentiment Porn

There's some e-mail called "Green Dog" going around now that is indicative of what I once called Sentiment Porn. To wit, Sentiment Porn are those e-mails that people keep sending to one another because they are apparently comforting. Remember those horrible Love Is cartoons? They're like those: relentlessly cute, reducing complex feelings to little aphorisms for people who are scared of life and scared of their own emotions. My mother sends me these things (my stepmother does, too), and I resent them tremendously. Yes, yes, dance like no one's watching. Whatever, thanks for the incredible help. Lame.

Well, from now on, I'm declaring war on Sentiment Porn and returning it to sender with a sarcastic, cynical retort to each one.

Porn: I love you not because of who you are, but because of who I am when I am with you.
Retort: Oh; well, I love you unconditionally for you, but if your feelings hinge on the depth of your response to me, I'll try not to find that disgustingly selfish. Why don't you keep this info to yourself next time, eh?

Porn: No man or woman is worth your tears, and the one who is won't make you cry.
Retort: Huh? I don't know about you, but my girlfriend and I make each other cry every couple of weeks. We're human beings, not ideals. But if you want to make this about how scared you are to feel, adjust your helmet and go ahead.

Porn: Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to, doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.
Retort: "You're good enough for now, Lurlene. For now."

Porn: A true friend is someone who reaches for your hand and touches your heart.
Retort: For "heart," substitute "penis." Go ahead, it still sounds less icky.

Porn: The worst way to miss someone is to be sitting right beside them and knowing you can't have them.
Retort: I hope this thought isn't going through peoples' heads all day at work. It's a little too self-important for me.

Porn: Never frown, even when you are sad, because you never know who is falling in love with your smile.
Retort: Ew, that's fucking terrible. So, you want me to be self-conscious, self-aggrandizing, or both? You know, cuz I just go around all the time so certain that everyone's watching me and fawning. I mean, when I wear my tight jeans, sure, but...

Porn: To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.
Retort: I hear they use this little gem to stop people from jumping off skyscrapers.

Porn: Don't waste your time on a man/woman who isn't willing to waste their time on you.
Retort: That's the problem with man-women, they're always so into themselves. I don't know, I don't think that my self-worth hinges on how much I can shame another person into making their whole life about me.

Porn: Maybe God wants us to meet a few wrong people before meeting the right one, so that when we finally meet the person, we will know how to be grateful.
Retort: Maybe God should stay out of my love life if he knows what's good for him. As if God has nothing better to do than govern every moment of every person's life. If you did that, you'd be a stalker, or they'd take your kid away.

Porn: Don't cry because it is over, smile because it happened.
Retort: This reveals a fear of feelings so deep that it practically asks you to hit yourself in the face with a pot to keep from thinking about reality.

Porn: There's always going to be people that hurt you, so what you have to do is keep on trusting and just be more careful about who you trust the next time around.
Retort: Shouldn't that be "whom you trust"? This one seems so self-contradictory that I can't even analyze it. Maybe it's all the terrible wording. Trust me, constructing aphorisms isn't as easy as it looks. I mean, all of these are awful.

Porn: Make yourself a better person and know who you are before you try and know someone else and expect them to know you.
Retort: Duh. Oh, and look both ways before you cross.

Porn: Don't try so hard, the best things come when you least expect them to.
Retort: Just keep clicking your heels like an asshole instead of getting any work done.

Porn: Remember, whatever happens, happens for a reason.
Retort: This is still the stupidest rationalism I've ever heard. Yes, "crisitunity" and all, but the use of this phrase reveals a mind that is so lacking in any constitution and hardiness, in any sense of reality, that I don't know why they leave the couch in the morning...

Sunday, September 25, 2005

Jim Henson: 9 September 1936 - 16 May 1990


Born 69 years ago.

"My goal is to leave the world a little better than when I got here." Posted by Picasa