Years ago, taking a comic book with you out in public was a sure-fire way to invite criticism and shame from a fairly large percentage of average adults. Sure, if you’re a kid or early teen it was fine, but should you try to do it as someone in their early 20s or, Odin forbid, your middle 30s”¦ it was like you were somehow dropping a deuce in the Wheaties of the great literary minds. Surely Poe or Hemingway themselves would show up, throw a bag over your head, toss you in the back of a van, and torture you for enjoying something other than one of “the great works” (which BTW I’m pretty sure actually happened one time in Key West).
Those days, thankfully, are gone. Yesterday I decided to venture out into the world and bring along a few issues so that I could enjoy them while drinking a large cup of coffee. Not a frapathingy or a mochawhatsit, but coffee. Simple ol’ coffee-flavored coffee, as Denis Leary puts it. In my backpack I put a few issues that I’ve been meaning to read and one of those was Grindhouse: Doors Open At Midnight #6. In hindsight, that may have been a faux pax and I would rather have taken the hood/van/car battery to my nipples scenario.