See, back in the days when I was insane...which, believe it or not, is not too, too far from where I am now...I used to be a voracious collector of comic books. It was a hobby that I started when I was around 11 years old, and over the course of two decades, I must literally have thousands of books, all holed up in little square plastic bags.
I stopped collecting somewhere in my thirties, but never could get rid of them. Call me a sentimentalist. Or maybe, just plain greedy. I always had this thought that maybe, many years from now, some of them might actually be worth something. And they might be, for all I know.
Anyway, for the past six years, my collection has been holed up at Josie's, in a storage area located near the kitchen. I think at one point I had some idea of eventually moving them, but where to place them always seemed to be a big question.
And then, while I was directing Jekyll and Hyde a few years ago, something disastrous happened. One day I had climbed up to the storage area, to pick out a few of the best items I had, in order to frame and mount them (I often frame and mount Corb, too, but that's an entirely different story...)
Well, I lost my balance, because there's really not much room to move up there. As a result, I fell to ground and fractured two ribs. It was a painful experience, made all the worse by the fact that I had to slog on and keep directing the damn show.
Since that time, the comics have lingered where they were, neglected. But about two years ago, my parents offered to take them off my hands, and put them into storage at their place.
Well, it's taken two years for me to actually get my off my ass and do something about that. But this week-end...possibly...maybe it's finally time...
People who have collections are so amusing, aren't they? Funny little folks, we are, and quite annoying to those droids who cannot see the fascination in anything.
Really, I guess everyone has something. My father collects coins. Corb has his scary nutcracker collection, and Josie likes to collect shrunken heads. My friend Pauline had a stuffed animal collection that numbered in the hundreds, until she actually discovered the joys of black men. My mother has a collection of Furbees that she picked up after going to McDonalds and filling her face with happy meals, time and again.
Of course, collections may seem charming, until you have to do something with them, like lug them around. I'm fairly positive that Corb's going to be cursing me out this week-end, more than once. And ask me why I couldn't have picked a lighter obsession, like feather pillows.
It's just one of the perks of being involved with me, I suppose. I'll choose feather pillows in the next life!