Originally published on mrchair Jamie and I spent a good part of the weekend on the couch reading comics we picked up at the library Saturday. The Denver Library has two comic book sections. One is upstairs above the second floor skylight. The second is a young adult section, which forces me to break the rules by entering without an accompanying teenager. If you combine the two, you get a pretty decent collection, but you never really know where anything is going to be, or in what order. That and someone who is clearly ordering fresh stock on a pretty regular basis makes it a serendipitous visit most days. You could find Lone Wolf and Cub a shelf away from Baby Blues.
Read MoreOriginally posted on MrchairPart II, Positions 10-1
Read MoreOriginally posted on mrchair. Part I, Positions 20 through 10.
Read MoreOriginally published on mrchair. The hall closet is a space big enough for a couple of refrigerators, that is almost completely full of my stuff. Not stuff like tools, or good china. Stuff I've collected over the years that almost never has an immediate purpose, but that I haul with me from apartment to apartment with every move, and then stash away somewhere for posterity. It's a random assortment, but the bigger boxes hold 1) old newspapers, most my old clips but some not, 2) old papers, like college literary analysis papers, tax returns, pay stubs, that kind of shit. And 3) comic books.
Read MoreI can’t really say that I have or ever will be shipped off to war or anything really comparable. But I have to imagine that it’s not terribly unlike being shipped off to a deep sea fishing trip. I picture them both starting in the late hours on shore, then boarding with a systematic sign-up and speech from the captain. All of the men are then ordered below deck to three-foot-wide bunks crammed together like shelving units, with the only air to breathe first being circulated through the lungs everyone else first. Then waking up in the middle of the night with aching nausea, stumbling above deck to a toilet and vomiting violently. Then looking up at myself in the mirror and facing a tour of duty that only just began, with a solitary thought: “My god, I have made a horrible mistake.”
Read MoreI spent much of the following week in bed shaking and sweating, alternately, with flu. My routine for my first week of work was as follows: Wake up. Take a shower. Ache. Moan. Work on a diet of cough drops and ibuprofen. Go home. Watch TV and drink tea. Pass out and sleep for 10-11 hours.
I hadn’t been this sick in years. Not just the intensity, but the lifespan, were singular. I was pretty much running on sheer will and drugs all week. Tuesday night, I was at a happy hour (it was a welcome happy hour for me, I couldn’t really miss it) and I got a call from Joe. It’s funny how since the past year, whenever an unexpected phone call comes, I assume death or disease. When dad calls after 9:30, or someone I haven’t heard from in a while, it’s never good news anymore. Joe called earlier while I was at work, so the second call I knew something was wrong. My mind scanned through friends’ parents, anyone who’s had health problems.
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