Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Ah the joys of living in New York!
We've been in the same tiny-for-normal-people but decent-by-NYC-standards apartment for about six years now. Being a giant geek, I've bought an assload of comic books in that time. And they've piled the fuck up. I've got eight long-boxes in my closet. (For those of you who don't speak Fanboy, a long-box is a cardboard box, about three feet long or so, in which you can store your comics in mylar bags with a backing board, so they don't get bent.) They take up a whole lot of space.
So, with the baby on the way, I decided I should probably sell the bulk of my comics. This will help me in two ways: First, it will allow me to use my closet for...y'know, clothes or shit. This is what I hear most adults do and it works out quite nicely. Second, if I can sell my collection to my local comic shop (LCS to any utter geeks reading this), I could probably get some of my sale price in cash and some in store credit, which would free up that money for non-comic-related things.
A couple of years back, I took some time to inventory all the comics I had in my long-boxes. Trouble was, even though I knew what was in there, they were all over the place. Half of my John Byrne Superman run was in one box and the other half was crammed in with Garth Ennis's Preacher. I had to make order out of the chaos!
So, yesterday, I hauled all eight boxes out into the living room. I'd DVR'd a bunch of movies and I just hit play and went to work. I labored over those boxes from about nine in the morning until right around three-thirty. I put comics with their rightful brethren. I gave each box at least some kind of loose theme. I put everything in its proper place in my computerized inventory. It was an intense job.
So intense, in fact, that I completely lost myself in it and didn't realize that I hadn't moved the car to the other goddamn side of the street until I heard the fucking street-cleaner thundering past our building. The one day this week when alternate-side parking wasn't suspended. The one time it mattered where the fuck I parked my car. And it wasn't like I was at work. It wasn't like I was out doing something and could get back. I was right fucking here. And I just forgot.
I bolted downstairs and ran down the sidewalk in my flip-flops, but I was too late. There was a big, ugly orange envelope under my wiper. Forty-five fucking dollar idiot-tax. So I drove the car around the block and parked it in front of our house. There was plenty of space, you see, as all the smart people had moved their cars. But, with the damage done, I just wanted to have the car in a good spot.
Except that the police weren't done with me. Nope. To them, it didn't matter that the street had already been swept and that my car was now blocking nothing. It didn't matter that they'd just fucking ticketed me. It wasn't one o'clock yet, so they went ahead and gave me another ticket! 'Cause they've got nothing better to do. There's no robberies going on, apparently. No drunk drivers. There's no other problems in the whole city right now except for this asshole who just insists on parking in front of his apartment!
At least my comics are organized.