A Chronology of my Comic Problem                                 Ally Malinenko

 

 

 

 

October 26, 1997:

 

 The Simpson’s aired the Treehouse of Horror VIII. In it, the Comic Book Guy is most assuredly killed by a nuclear missile, and his final parting words are, “I’ve wasted my life.”

 

 

Pittsburgh, 1997:

 

I was a sophomore in college and I wasn’t reading comics. Sure, I’d pop into the local shops in Pittsburgh and nervously browse but as soon as one of the sales associates asked me if I needed help, I scurried out of the store like an anxious mouse. It was all so overwhelming. There were so many X-Men titles. Issues were in the hundreds. There was no way I could ever catch up. I had no foundation and I knew my ignorance would be transparent. They would see right through me down to the core of my blaring naivety. The same way the sales associates in Dave’s Music Mine on Forbes Ave, used to give me that strange sideways look when I said, no I’m sorry I don’t know who insert-trendy-indie-rocker-here is. I was doomed to live a comic-less (and subsequently indie rock-less) life, devoid of some of the greatest mythologies creators have ever set down. No Batman. No Superman. No Wolverine. No Batgirl. The trials and tribulations of Barbara Gordon’s world weren’t going to be mine to understand. I should have started sooner. Much much sooner – like from birth. I thought of my father, lamenting the fact that his mother threw out all his Spiderman comics from when he was a child. It wasn’t about what they would sell for now – it was about what they meant to him. He had been there, at the beginning.

 

          Buffalo, Graduate School, 2005:

 

I was living in Buffalo, working full time, going to school full time, sleeping less than I would like, and swamped with lengthy research projects on the history of scholarly reference methodology since the Library of Alexandria. I spent my Sundays at the Central Library downtown, combing through the graphic novels. They sufficed, I told myself. I didn’t need individual issues. Besides, where would I put them? I can wait on trade. I read mostly indie stuff, not the capes. I still worried that with the capes I could never catch up. So many bad guys. So little time. Hello Sandman.

 

Occasionally I would park the car on Main Street near the tiny Queen City Comics shop. The men there were nice, they didn’t care how long I browsed. I still stayed away from the capes but I found other titles. Hello Fell. Hello Hellboy. Hello BPRD. I stashed them away in my desk, not sure what to do. I wasn’t collecting (not yet) just dipping a toe into the Lazarus Pit.

 

 

New York City, August 2011:

 

The New York Times ran an article on The New 52. DC was rebooting. Nerds across the land lamented, crying out in a universal wail as their own stories, their favorite mythologies stood to be snuffed out of existence. But I rejoiced. This was providence! My chance to begin at the beginning. A complete reboot, a do-over. Batman, from day one, would be mine! My husband and I prepared our list. We were conservative. Just DC. Just the Bat Family. Okay, the Bat Family and Superman. And Justice League. But that was it. I foolishly suggested that we just get everything – get the first issue of every single New 52. Discover whatever there is to discover. But as soon as it was said aloud we both shook our heads. That was madness. What was I going to do with Blue Beetle? A character I had never heard of. No, just the Bat Family and Justice League folks.

 

“And Green Lantern Corps,” my husband added.

 

I nodded. “And Justice League Dark,” I said.

 

My husband furrowed his brow. “Constantine’s in it,” I said. I had read his comics in Buffalo. My husband nodded. Armed, we went with our list to the comic book store. We made a modest pull list. We were given boards and bags. It felt like Christmas. We were nervous and shy with the guys at the store as if meeting someone who would become an intimate for the first time.

 

Hi.

 

Hi.

 

The list grew exponentially and then in a panic of “I’m spending too much money on comics,” it shrunk. Goodbye Wonder Woman. (Don’t fear, gentle reader, she returned.) Goodbye Teen Titans. Goodbye Birds of Prey.

 

Then, standing in Midtown Comics one week: Hello? What is this? I thought as I lifted off the shelf The Incredible Hulk. The art was tempting. The story more so. Hulk was separated from Banner? How? My brain whirled. I must have it.  I showed my husband. He nodded. He handed me the new Iron Man and Spidey. Hello Marvel. My name’s Ally. I’m developing a comic problem.

 

The list grew again. Winter Soldier, Captain America, Avengers vs. X-Men, Uncanny X-Men, Iron Man, Spiderman, Ultimate Spiderman (Hello Miles. Rest in peace Peter), Wolverine. I discovered the key. Arcs. You didn’t have to start from the beginning. The whole thing was like a waterfall and when there was a break in the water, you could leap in and sail the river of Marvel.

 

Then smaller presses. Smaller titles  – Vertigo, Image, Dark Horse. American Vampire. Punk Rock Jesus. Mind the Gap. Alabaster Wolves. MixTape. The list grew.

 

 

New York City, June 2012

 

I learned names. Scott Snyder. Jeff Lemire. Gail Simone. John Higgins. Joe Hill. Ben Templesmith. Warren Ellis. Fiona Staples. Brian K. Vaughn. Rafael Albuquerque. Geoff Johns.

 

I had a novel coming out – I joined Twitter to promote it, but all I did was follow comic book writers, and illustrators, comic book zines and fan sites and reviews. When Ben Templesmith replied to my tweet I nearly died. I should have changed my twitter name from @allymalinenko to @fangirl. I even followed editors. I was there for the kerfuffle with Rob Liefeld and Scott Snyder when Rob claimed that the only reason that Scott’s books were doing well was because it was Batman. I tweeted in my beloved Scott’s defense. Rob Liefeld tweeted back, bringing up comics I didn’t know, writers I didn’t know. He wanted to talk Grant Morrison. I was out of my element. Scared, I retreated, retweeted, just said something weak like “well @ssnyder is really good….so…there.”

 

Besides, Rob Liefeld can’t draw feet. So…. there.

 

My writing room (read: closet) filled quickly with boxes of comics. In the morning, the cat slept in one of them. Suicide Squad trade was released. I flipped through it at the store. What have we done? We missed this one. We need this one. The hunt began – we have issues 1-8 here but what about 9-12? Wonder Woman was brought back. Then Birds of Prey. The list expands and contracts like a living breathing thing. Goodbye Captain. Goodbye Avengers. Sorry it didn’t work out. It’s me, not you. We can still be friends.

 

“We’ll assess in a year,” my husband said as we left our shop having re-written our pull list. “We have to find Red Hood. From the first issue. The Bat Family isn’t complete until we have Jason Todd.”

 

I agreed as we boarded the train. We got all the back issues of Wonder Woman, all the issues of Birds of Prey and Suicide Squad we needed. We planned our way through the city. Working from Midtown Comics – Times Square to Forbidden Planet to Midtown – Downtown. I inhaled the scent of boards and bags and ink each time we climbed the steps into the shop. I scanned the new books. My husband bee-lined for the past issues, flipping like a crazed thing for Red Hood #1. 

 

 

New York City, Present Day

 

I’m fifteen comics behind when the new week starts. Fifteen plus another twenty-five titles come Wednesday. I start bringing them to work. I put down the novel. I put down the Shakespeare books I need for research for my own writing. Nothing is more important than Catwoman. I read the blogs. I tweet to the writers. I hang around in the comic book shop when there is a signing. I didn’t even read the guy’s book but it’s okay – the line is long and I can read while I wait. I don’t even consider the absurdity of buying a comic I don’t know by a writer I don’t know and queue up.

 

“So you hear about Marvel Now?” the man behind me says. I tilt my head back to eavesdrop. I falter, closing the book and glance to see how many people are ahead of me. Up front the writer signs away. The artists do quick sketches. The smell of sharpies fills the air.

 

“What?” the other man says.

 

“Marvel Now. They’re doing a re-launch.”

 

“A reboot?”

 

“No, a re-launch. Just some new titles. All post Avengers vs X-Men stuff. Fallout kinda things. Should be cool. Looking forward to Indestructible Hulk. Totally wipes out previous Hulk stuff.”

 

“Cool. We’ll have to re-up our pull list.”

 

I nodded, grit my teeth. I think of the geeks before me, lamenting The New 52. Of course, I thought, glancing ahead. I watch the author sign and shake hands with another fan. I curse. A re-launch. That’s exactly what I need.

 

I think of my pull list. Re-up, indeed. In my head, I start adding titles.

 

 

 

 

Ally Malinenko’s second book of poems, Crashing to Earth, is forthcoming from Tainted Coffee Press and her first novel for children, Lizzy Speare and the Cursed Tomb was recently published by Antenna Books. She lives in Brooklyn.