Most weeks, I try to go on Wednesday evening. If I'm busy, or distracted, I might go as much as a week.
But as soon as a few days past "New Comics Wednesday" and I inevitably get the itch. To flip through page after page of paneled costumes, dramas, and mighty adventure. To see what Wally is up to, or Donna, or that new girl called Armor, or Storm. To figure out why the newest "New" X-men is so predictable and so bad. It is a visceral thirst, if too many days swim past. What are Grace and Thunder up to? Can Gog really be what he seems? When -- o, when -- will the Legion of Three Worlds finally debut?
The moment itself is always subtly thrilling. The discovery of the comic shop. The smell of paper, cardboard, insecurity, hope. What will be on the list I expected to find? Which series will have been delayed? And (here the best of all), what surprises actually snuck through?
But that euphoria only lasts so long -- the first page through of all of them, the sorting, the choosing firsts and lasts. And, more and more often these days, the end result --the weekly result -- is let-down. It's almost as if the getting of comics, the imagining of the joy is far superior to the reading experience itself.
Like life? I wonder? Wedding, new jobs, writing fiction. Is the dream of fulfillment necessarily more rewarding than actual fulfillment itself?
