Going through the motions.

When I was very young, before I could read. I remember being interested in comic books. Our bedtime was not negotiable, but we could delay "lights out" for another half hour if we read anything. I mostly looked at the pictures; I could make out "a" and "the" and then simply tried to piece together a story. I could tell that Jughead liked to eat, Archie was broke. Betty was nice, and Veronica was mean. There are only so many times you can read the same ones, though, so my dad would take my brother and me to Whyte Avenue. Not too far down from Uncle Albert's Pancake House (burned down since then) was the Wee Book Inn, a store that had an odour a bit like someone's grandmother's house. Not mine, but someone's. I remember the dirty orange carpet, frayed and ragged. The wooden shelves were tall and packed with worn covers of books read many times over. Pages were yellowed and paperbacks had arched spines like old sway-backed horses. It was an old folks' home for second-hand books, with that smell of old newsprint and slightly musty wood. There were stacks of magazines with fat, contented cats sleeping on them that you could pet without fear of being scratched. If ever there was a mystical "Ye Olde Magic Shoppe" in my life, this was it. It was a trading post for old books, and more importantly, comics. My dad would have us bring all the comics  we could bear to part with, and we would watch as the clerk would shuffle through them, calculating their value. I felt as though I was in the days of the Klondike, come down from my claim in the hills and waiting for the assayer to separate the fool's gold from the real thing. His appraisal would determine how many second-hand comics we could walk away with. Always fewer than what we came in with, but my Pops would pull out his wallet, careful to make sure we never left with a smaller stack. Comics were our treasure, our booty, and we would rush up to our rooms and file them away carefully on our very own spinning comic rack. Soon, Archie, Dot, and Richie Rich gave way to Spider-Man, Captain America, X-Men, and Alpha Flight (Canada's very own super team). Now, around this time, my memories blur a bit, but what I remember is this--I wanted to be a superhero. My brain was constantly calculating my super moves, my super costume, what powers I would have, how I would use them, and with whom I would share my incredible secret. My brother was in, my parents were out--lest they force me to use my new-found abilities on chores. There were, however, no radioactive spiders available to me, no toxic-waste sites, and I found out very quickly, despite my brother's urging, that jumping off the garage roof with two kites to sweep over the neighbourhood didn't work. When the price of comics increased, so did my interest in girls and cars, and my treasure was relegated to the darkness of the crawlspace of our house, carefully packed in plastic bags and taped twice, not once. My desire to be a superhero, however, never abated. I couldn't help but think about how being able to fly and being bulletproof would help me on any endeavour I chose. And then there was Joss. I met him in a small, dimly lite office, where he regaled me with tales of adventure, swashbuckling, shooting, spaceships, and narrow escapes. Um, where do I sign? He gave me a new identity, a costume, a gun, and a long brown duster for a cape. I remember that meeting so well; it was like a superhero "origin" issue. I remember Joss looking at Polaroid photos of my first costume fitting, holding up the one with the duster and gun saying. "Action figure, anyone?" Never in my wildest. Like some sort of super team benefactor, Joss made superheroes out of all of us, complete with a super-hideout spaceship. During filming, we'd all retreat to our dressing room trailers and emerge like Supermen with our alter egos. The boots, the suspenders, gun holstered low on my hip... with a flick and a spin of that wicked awesome coat over my shoulders, I became someone else. So, I guess the message I want to leave you with is this: What you hold in your hand is not just a comic. It is much more. It is a handbook. It is a guide. It is reference material for when you become a superhero. I have found the secret, you see. To become a superhero, all you have to do is want it badly enough, and comics are the fuel to that fire. Incidentally, you hold in your hand my favorite (favourite for Canadians)... comic... ever. Dark Horse and our cover artists have given us a great introduction to Joss's world of comics action heroes. They amazed us from the first issue, packed with shooting, crashing, punching, and splatting. Thank you, everyone. I'll be placing this series in my comic book rack, just as soon as I get this home. It will be wrapped and double-taped.