raul grau
Sep 22, 2005, 02:30 pm
<img src="http://www.comixfan.com/xfan/images/columns/fliacbs.jpg" hspace=10 align=left border=0 alt="Fear and Loathing in a Comic Book Store logo">By A.W. Pemberton
Freak Kingdom
There’s an aspect to some comic stores that regular comic readers may find disturbing. Many will try to avoid a store that contains this kind of menace; such is the level of discomfort it inspires. I am talking about, of course, the presence of gamers. If you haven’t had this experience, then you probably should consider yourself lucky. However, my extended exposure to gaming culture has taught me that all is not what it seems.
The first thing I noticed when I began my job was the inordinate amount of noise generated by a small number of freaks playing a strange card game that I couldn’t understand. I’d seen these people before, when I'd visited the store as a customer, but only now did I realize that they were permanent fixtures. "How long could I maintain?" I wondered. "How long before I start raving and jabbering at these boys? What will they think then?" The Fear was coming on, I could feel it. A freak out was definitely in the cards, and I knew that once it started, I was finished. In the outside world, these people were considered too lame to live, and were suitably mocked into hiding, and this, apparently, was their hideout. The sovereign territory of the Gaming Geeks. I could handle short periods of this stuff, but extended sessions might cause irreparable mental damage. I might never be able enter a comic store again.
"Ye Gods, how did I get myself into this mess?" I thought, as panic washed over me. Nothing can describe the terror I felt - I was trapped in here with a group of potentially dangerous king-freaks, with no recourse to stop their truly terrible noises. This was their turf, and anyone who didn’t like the scene would be swiftly destroyed. Noticing they were all sitting on steel chairs (suspiciously like the kind that professional wrestlers get hit over the head with), I began searching the room for something I could defend myself with, if things got ugly. The fire extinguisher was my best option. I could use it at range to give someone a face full of frozen CO2, or create a smokescreen to facilitate a quick dash out the door, or just swing it round wildly and clock any poor fool who got too close. Yes, the perfect weapon.
Happily, no such conflict ever occurred. Within a few weeks I stopped noticing the sound, it became the normal background noise of the store, although I never did make any sense of what they were talking about. After a time, I began to see my own hypocrisy; these people were no different than me or anyone else - their trip was just a bit weirder, and hence, harder to understand. I never had to use the fire extinguisher on them, although, in hindsight, I should have; it would have been good for them - and for me, too.
Magic Tournaments were always the craziest in terms of Gamer madness. On those days the place was so full with them that there was no room for other customers to move around the store. One time, a customer who had barely navigated through the sea of weirdness quietly commented to my Boss and I: "I feel sorry for you guys. How can you stand this line of work?" "Oh, we like it. Its groovy," my Boss replied, smiling. "Yeah, what’s wrong with you?" I added. "Somebody’s gotta do it!" He looked at us strangely for a second, then averted his eyes while he paid for his stuff, and left swiftly without saying another word. "Oh well, another lost customer," I thought to myself. "Scared off by a bunch of geeks. What a sissy."
A comic book store is no place for the half-bright. It is only suitable for those who are full-minded or have none at all. Any person in between these categories becomes severely confused the second they enter a comic store, usually reacting with either fear-filled shock or with mocking derision, in an ignorant attempt to assert some self-important authority over what they don’t understand. They usually can be seen running with their tail between their legs, never to return. Comic stores do seem to have some kind of strange, mystical power that keeps out the self-absorbed, those who believe themselves too cool to enter. Geeks will often enter in search of sanctuary when accosted by hostile forces in the outside world.
Periodically, episodes not unlike the following would unfold. They usually began with some paranoid fool bursting in, wild-eyed with terror, yelling:
"You gotta help me! There’s some big guys outside, and they want my blood!"
"Why? What did you do?"
"Nothing! I was just walking past them, and they started following me. I
think they’re probably Lebanese."
"Bull****. You said something to them, didn’t you?"
"No! C’mon, man, can’t you let me out the back or something?"
"No way. If they come in here, I’m giving you up straight away. For all I
know, you deserve whatever’s coming to you."
"Nooo! You can’t!" he shrieked, "They said they were going to slice me up! Oh, god, I can’t die! I’m too young!"
"This is a place of business, not a safehouse for trouble-makers like you. Now begone! You’re disturbing the other customers," I said, fully aware that, apart from the two of us, the store was completely empty. At this, his shoulders slumped, conceding the fact that he was doomed. He turned slowly and trudged out, never to be seen again, with any luck.
Looking back, perhaps it was Stockholm Syndrome that got me through my time there. I don’t know. I did have some good times, in a fairly strange place, and in the end, that’s all I could’ve asked for.
<center><hr width=75%></center>
A.W. Pemberton is a big fan of opium.
<center><hr width=75%></center>
The opinions expressed in this column are solely those of the writer, and are not reflective of Comixfan or its other staff in general.
Freak Kingdom
There’s an aspect to some comic stores that regular comic readers may find disturbing. Many will try to avoid a store that contains this kind of menace; such is the level of discomfort it inspires. I am talking about, of course, the presence of gamers. If you haven’t had this experience, then you probably should consider yourself lucky. However, my extended exposure to gaming culture has taught me that all is not what it seems.
The first thing I noticed when I began my job was the inordinate amount of noise generated by a small number of freaks playing a strange card game that I couldn’t understand. I’d seen these people before, when I'd visited the store as a customer, but only now did I realize that they were permanent fixtures. "How long could I maintain?" I wondered. "How long before I start raving and jabbering at these boys? What will they think then?" The Fear was coming on, I could feel it. A freak out was definitely in the cards, and I knew that once it started, I was finished. In the outside world, these people were considered too lame to live, and were suitably mocked into hiding, and this, apparently, was their hideout. The sovereign territory of the Gaming Geeks. I could handle short periods of this stuff, but extended sessions might cause irreparable mental damage. I might never be able enter a comic store again.
"Ye Gods, how did I get myself into this mess?" I thought, as panic washed over me. Nothing can describe the terror I felt - I was trapped in here with a group of potentially dangerous king-freaks, with no recourse to stop their truly terrible noises. This was their turf, and anyone who didn’t like the scene would be swiftly destroyed. Noticing they were all sitting on steel chairs (suspiciously like the kind that professional wrestlers get hit over the head with), I began searching the room for something I could defend myself with, if things got ugly. The fire extinguisher was my best option. I could use it at range to give someone a face full of frozen CO2, or create a smokescreen to facilitate a quick dash out the door, or just swing it round wildly and clock any poor fool who got too close. Yes, the perfect weapon.
Happily, no such conflict ever occurred. Within a few weeks I stopped noticing the sound, it became the normal background noise of the store, although I never did make any sense of what they were talking about. After a time, I began to see my own hypocrisy; these people were no different than me or anyone else - their trip was just a bit weirder, and hence, harder to understand. I never had to use the fire extinguisher on them, although, in hindsight, I should have; it would have been good for them - and for me, too.
Magic Tournaments were always the craziest in terms of Gamer madness. On those days the place was so full with them that there was no room for other customers to move around the store. One time, a customer who had barely navigated through the sea of weirdness quietly commented to my Boss and I: "I feel sorry for you guys. How can you stand this line of work?" "Oh, we like it. Its groovy," my Boss replied, smiling. "Yeah, what’s wrong with you?" I added. "Somebody’s gotta do it!" He looked at us strangely for a second, then averted his eyes while he paid for his stuff, and left swiftly without saying another word. "Oh well, another lost customer," I thought to myself. "Scared off by a bunch of geeks. What a sissy."
A comic book store is no place for the half-bright. It is only suitable for those who are full-minded or have none at all. Any person in between these categories becomes severely confused the second they enter a comic store, usually reacting with either fear-filled shock or with mocking derision, in an ignorant attempt to assert some self-important authority over what they don’t understand. They usually can be seen running with their tail between their legs, never to return. Comic stores do seem to have some kind of strange, mystical power that keeps out the self-absorbed, those who believe themselves too cool to enter. Geeks will often enter in search of sanctuary when accosted by hostile forces in the outside world.
Periodically, episodes not unlike the following would unfold. They usually began with some paranoid fool bursting in, wild-eyed with terror, yelling:
"You gotta help me! There’s some big guys outside, and they want my blood!"
"Why? What did you do?"
"Nothing! I was just walking past them, and they started following me. I
think they’re probably Lebanese."
"Bull****. You said something to them, didn’t you?"
"No! C’mon, man, can’t you let me out the back or something?"
"No way. If they come in here, I’m giving you up straight away. For all I
know, you deserve whatever’s coming to you."
"Nooo! You can’t!" he shrieked, "They said they were going to slice me up! Oh, god, I can’t die! I’m too young!"
"This is a place of business, not a safehouse for trouble-makers like you. Now begone! You’re disturbing the other customers," I said, fully aware that, apart from the two of us, the store was completely empty. At this, his shoulders slumped, conceding the fact that he was doomed. He turned slowly and trudged out, never to be seen again, with any luck.
Looking back, perhaps it was Stockholm Syndrome that got me through my time there. I don’t know. I did have some good times, in a fairly strange place, and in the end, that’s all I could’ve asked for.
<center><hr width=75%></center>
A.W. Pemberton is a big fan of opium.
<center><hr width=75%></center>
The opinions expressed in this column are solely those of the writer, and are not reflective of Comixfan or its other staff in general.