Comics in Chicago
Since I have been in Chicago, I've largely kicked the comic book habit.

There are many reasons for this, all pragmatic, having to do with space and finances. Somewhat sadder is the fact that I really haven't really missed them all that much.

That said, I broke my fast for one issue this week.

Back in the spring of 1998, I started buying a monthly series called Planetary. I quite enjoyed it. Good book. Smart scripts by Warren Ellis. Beautiful art by John Cassaday. The story was planned to run 24 issues, but they soon expanded it a little to 27. One of the major subtexts of the story was the transition from the 20th century to the 21st, so that would work out fine, as--shipping an issue every month or two--the whole series would be done by 2001. 2002 at the latest.

Issue 27 came out two weeks ago.

As mainstream comics is an *exceptionally* dopey medium, nonsense like this actually happens with alarming regularity.

Anyway, as I had stuck around for 26 issues--the last one crawling out in 2006, if I remember correctly--I shrugged wearily and sallied forth to seek #27 out. Luckily, as my neighborhood is awesome, I am within walking distance of all major essentials, including two comic book stores.

I tried the nice one, Dark Tower, first. This is my friend Bill Green's store and one of the first things he showed me when I first visited. Smallish, but solid. Fairly nice selection. Reminds me of Clifton Comics. Alas, they were sold out.

Time to try Variety Comics down the street. AKA the oldest comic book store in Chicago. AKA the one Bill warmed me away from. Established in 1975 and clearly not cleaned since 1974. A bracing throwback to the comic book stores of distant yore. Before they were cool. Seriously.

I pushed open the front door, almost completely barricaded by a shoulder-high mound of empty cardboard boxes from Diamond. An archetypal basement store, I then descended the stairs into the dark cave, breaching a thin, low-lying layer of oily mist, like the laser-edged fog that covered the eggs in the Space Jockey's hold in Alien. My eyes adjusted to the gloom as my sinuses clogged instantly from the Castle-levels of mold.

As to general store layout, the closest analogue would be Fearless Readers in Dayton. Tiny and cramped, with every molecule assigned a separate comic book to hold. But where Fearless Readers is run by a family and the clutter is homey, Variety's clutter is more akin to Buffalo Bill's farmhouse.

Comics overflowed the racks, stuffed like socks into an undersized dresser drawer. Slumping, sliding stacks of comics covered every horizontal surface, including the floor, turning the already minuscule walking lanes into an checkerboard obstacle course. I've never quite seen a store like it.

Needless to say, they had my book and (no cash register in sight), the teen behind the counter didn't even charge me sale tax.

Cleanliness? No way. Order? Make finding your books a game. Back issues? Pick a pile and dig; you might find an Amazing Fantasy #15! Toys? Games? You have to be kidding. Indie comics? Try Tiffany's, your highness. Manga? Fuck you.

Now *this* is a comic book store! Enter and return to the late '70s, a magical time when there was nothing but the Big Two and the direct market was authentically creepy.

I might organize a safari.