A rchive Date
[ 01-05-2004 ]
Category
[ International Relations ]
sub-Categoy
[ Mass Media ]
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[http://www.canoe.ca/NewsStand/Columnists/London/Sean_Twist/2004/05/01/442774.html
Getting this comic was no laughing matter
SEAN TWIST, For the London Free Press
2004-05-01
One of my favourite passages from King Arthur and His Totally Bitchin' Sword (Spicoli Press, 1985), concerned Galahad's thoughts on the nature of quests.
"They're like totally gnarly," he said, high-fiving Lancelot.
"Like ridin' a tight curl on a new board. But, like, when you finish 'em, you know,it's like - whoah!"
"Like, completely," Lancelot sighed, checking out Guinevere as she laced up her roller skates, Arthur glaring at them both over his Ray Bans.
Having recently completed a quest, I know exactly how these medieval knights felt. After 25 years, I had finally found my own personal Holy Grail.
Years of determined searching, both in the real world and the Internet, had finally come to an end. There, on a sunsplashed Friday afternoon on Dundas Street, I had finally found it: Detective Comics No. 439.
I don't consider myself a true comic book collector, since I value them solely for their stories and characters, and could care less about some alleged market value. (In fact, I take deep pleasure at the looks of horror among comic connoisseurs when I relate tales of cat-orchestrated trauma. I carry smelling salts, if needed.)
Still, nearly 4,000 comics have weaseled their way into my home, like multi-coloured squatters. The last thing I need is another one.
But this particular issue of Detective Comics was one I'd always wanted, because it contained that ingredient vital to any worthwhile quest: a link to the past.
Of course, the cynics among you could say that's all comic books are to socially awkward, underachieving losers like me: temporary portals to an idyllic childhood that never was.
And I'd agree with you - after I'd asked you what hockey team you've supported since you were a tyke, or why you still collect Hot Rods or Barbies. To each their own time portal, I say. So nyah.
But this particular issue carried special significance. It represented the first time I had gone out to earn the money to buy a comic. Up until then, I had depended on whining to grandparents and my beleaguered mother. This time, I had to scrounge the money myself. Oh, the horror!
It was 1973, and my family was living on Arbour Glen. Money was tight - being a single mother with two kids usually assures that. A big night out back then meant wandering down to the variety store.
Down at this glorious mercantile otherworld, I had checked out the comic spinner rack.
There, slotted in the rack's metal bars, was the greatest comic I had ever seen - 100 Pages Super Spectacular it proclaimed, and it was right.
The cover showed Batman atop some lonely hill, with a dramatically convenient full moon rising behind him. He looked deadly cool to my eight-year-old eyes. Beneath him, three terrified thugs ran shrieking through a fetid swamp.
One guy turned to fire his revolver, as if that would actually do anything. It's Batman, idiot! The other two looked like they needed a change of underwear, and not because of the swamp water.
If Batman making criminals incontinent wasn't enough, there were added features. A Doctor Fate story from the '40s. (Enticingly weird.) Hawkman and Hawkgirl taking on a ghost. The Atom, who could shrink. And Zatanna, the Mistress of Magic - whose tight tuxedo jacket and fishnet stockings would have lifelong repercussions both for me and future girlfriends.
But the book cost a fortune. Scrooge McDuck himself would have to think twice about buying this gem.
It was 50 cents!
So that winter evening, I shovelled sidewalks. Detective Comics 439 would be mine. After an hour or so of cruel labour, I went back to the store and bought it. A happier boy could not be found in London that night.
Of course, it disappeared later. Probably read to pulp, like most of my comics. And so began the search. A search that ended at N8K Comics last week.
It's beside my computer now, in one of those high-grade plastic bags that can probably stop bullets. It takes its place alongside my Wombles, a blue Tardis and my Yoda puppet - my mnemonic menagerie of quests achieved.
And Lancelot is right. It rocks. Totally.
Sean Twist is a London freelance writer. His column appears every Saturday. Home Page
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