This afternoon, I took my 6 year old to a comic book shop for the first time. We left the house with no particular place to go—we just needed to get out of the house for a while, and it was too hot to play outside. When I suggested the destination, he got excited. The nearest shop I know of is a hole-in-the-wall kind of place.

I’ve been to many comic book shops over the years, and they range from dark, gothic shops to bright, fluorescent stores. The owners and employees range from surly “fat-beards” with a chip on their shoulder to happy, helpful, friendly geeks. My preferred places are those bright stores with friendly geeks.

I had only been to this particular place one time, and it leaned a bit to the dark and surly. I know of a better place in the area, but it’s at least a half-hour drive away. I got my son excited about going to a comic shop before I really thought about what the closest place was, and kind of cringed at what his first experience with a comic shop would be. I hoped I could keep things good for him despite the establishment.

We walked into the store, and I was happy to see two normal-looking guys talking at the counter. The clerk immediately asked if he could help us with anything—a good sign. I told him we were just looking.

My son’s head was on a swivel, looking all around the room. There were comic books and graphic novels everywhere; I think he was in visual overload. He was quiet and intent. He looked at everything, and took his time moving from shelf to shelf. I made sure he quickly passed over anything of questionable imagery.

Contrary to what some non-comics-fans think, comic books are not specifically for children. Many comics are strictly for adults. Like most movies are PG or R rated—not for children—so are comic books. And even the ones not specifically for “adult audiences” can be a bit intense for young kids.

We spent many minutes looking at the new comics, some comic-character toys, and some new and old role playing game books. A few patrons moved through, in and out, of the store. The patrons were all males, and just normal guys. My initial concern about the environment was dropped—the store was physically dark, with dark walls and dark shelves, and just sufficient lighting, but none of the employees or customers were like that.

My boy found a Spider-Man comic on the new issues shelf and wanted to get it. The cover showed The Kingpin – an evil crime lord. (He’s not just a “bad guy,” he is Evil.) I paged through the book and saw this issue was almost entirely a long violent sequence between Spider-Man and The Kingpin, so I said no to that book. I suggested we go to the back of the store and look through their old comics in boxes and plastic sleeves.

New comics are around four bucks each, and I figured many of the old books wouldn’t be more than that. Plus, the sufficiently old ones might be cheesy enough to not bother a child’s sensibilities.

We searched through probably a hundred Spider-Man books until my son found one that intrigued him: Spider-Man versus The Lizard and some other reptilian/dinosaurian monster. The book cover was in bad shape, but it was only priced at $2.50. Its “pre-damaged” condition assuaged my feelings about giving a 6 year old a 30 year old, collected comic book. (He looks at his comics so much that they fall apart within a couple weeks.)

We went back to the front of the store where I picked up a couple new issues of Incredible Hulk. As we were about to check out, I asked the clerk if they had any Marvel comics (the publisher of Spider-Man and such) for young kids. They had several. The clerk showed us where they were on the new issues shelf, and my boy picked out a new Spider-Man to go with his ancient one. We were both happy and excited about our new comic books.

We made the purchase and went back out to the van. My son of course wanted to look through his books as soon as we were buckled into our seats. I wanted to look at my books right away, too, but I had to drive.

* * *

On the subject of comic book shops, I will add that I actually worked at a comic book shop for a week back in the late 90s.

I was writing freelance at the time, and so had a very flexible schedule during my days. The owner and sole operator of the comic shop where I made all my comic purchases, a bright, clean store, wanted to go out of town for a few days to a major convention. One of my long time dreams was to run a comic book store. (Not exactly a “change the world” dream, I admit.) So I offered to run the shop while he went to the convention.

The owner was supposed to be gone only three or four days, but winter weather held him up wherever he was—I don’t remember in what city the convention was being held. Through regular phone check ins, he let me continue to run the store for seven full days, from opening till closing.

That was one of the most enjoyable jobs I ever had. I got to hang out in a bright and clean comic book store all day, looking through the old issues, reading the new issues, talking with fellow comics fans, and just generally getting my comics geek on for seven glorious days.

Bullgrit

I’m not a happy handyman. I fix things and install things when I need to, but I don’t look forward to the process. But I like hardware stores. Go figure. I was just in two very different hardware stores: Ace Hardware and The Home Depot.

Ace is closer, so I went there first. It’s a small store; maybe one-tenth the size of the other. I can roam the whole store in about ten minutes. You can stand in the center of the store and see every aisle, and all four walls. It has a homey, comfortable feel about it, like a mom-and-pop store. There’re two or three styles of everything I see, and if I’m looking for something particular, I can get it and be out quickly.

I found what I went there for, and took it to the check out (just two registers). There was another customer at both registers, and things were held up. The computers were glitched. They mentioned having to reboot the system, so I took my item back to the shelf (about 10 steps away) and left the store.

I then went on to The Home Depot. It’s a huge store. The outdoor garden area alone is bigger than the whole of Ace. I can roam the store for half an hour and not see every aisle. It takes about five minutes just to find the location of the item I’m looking for, and then there’re 20 versions and options to choose from. Have you ever looked at the nuts and bolts aisle?

I found the item I needed and took it to one of the dozen check out counters. I saw an interesting difference at the check outs. Ace had a shelf full of candy, like you’d see at a grocery store; Home Depot had shelves full of unusual little gadgets.

There’s a scent in the air of hardware stores. Ace has the same scent throughout the store – metal, oil, paint, all mingled together. It’s not a bad smell. Home Depot has a different smell on each aisle – metal on the nuts and bolts aisle, oil on the lawn machine aisle, paint on the paint aisle. These are not bad smells either.

I like both kinds of stores—small “mom and pop” style, big warehouse style—and I enjoy visiting and roaming about both of them. I can find something interesting to look at, something I haven’t seen before, something I have no idea how to use, and something to solve some problem in my home or yard. I just really like hardware stores.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

I’ve mentioned before that I play the Powerball lottery. I usually buy my ticket at the same store, just a mile or so down the street from my home. When our state first got the lottery, the whole thing was just the one game. Then came various scratch off cards. Steadily the options for scratch off cards increased, and now there are about two dozen ways to play. A sizable space on the store counter is given to the case for all the scratch off cards.

I don’t play the scratch offs. I picked up a couple different ones way back, but after seeing how they work, I have no interest in them. The scratch off cards are not really any kind of game, and you don’t really play them. The scratch off cards I’ve seen have no real game to them – no thought or choice is necessary, at all. You simply scratch off all parts of the card and see if a win is under any of them. So basically, a scratch off card is either a winner or a loser before you pick it up and scratch it. That’s not a game.

To play the Powerball lottery, you at least get to pick what numbers you want to bet on. You can use special numbers, like birthdays or anniversaries, or you can just choose random numbers. I’ve tried different methods for choosing numbers, but lately I just go random. I mark whatever numbers come to mind when I’m filling out the card.

Now, I’ll admit this way of playing a game does not require a great mind, or even any understanding of the game at all. But I’m willingly self-deluded enough (or elitist enough) to think choosing my own numbers is a more real way to play a game than just scratching silver gunk off a card that was determined a winner or looser at the printer.

If you’ve never bought a lottery ticket before, this is how it’s done—I’m only explaining this to tell the next story:
You fill out a card and then hand it to the store clerk. The clerk runs the card through a machine that scans it and prints out the actual lottery ticket. The fill-out card is useless after you have the ticket, but some people, myself included, keep the filled out card with the ticket. I fold the card around the ticket to protect it—the ticket is pretty fragile and easily damaged by moisture.

When I bought my latest lottery ticket, there was another man in the store cashing in his ticket for $3. I was back sitting in my car in front of the store when that man exited the store. He threw his old lottery card in the trash (having turned in the ticket). But he didn’t just toss it in the can, or crumple it up and toss it in, as I would have done. He stood there and tore it up into small pieces and sprinkled them around the garbage. What was that about? Was he concerned that someone would come through the trash and find the numbers he bet on? If that was his concern, how did he pick his numbers? Did he have a pattern that he thought would work, and would be worth someone going through the trash for them? Did he use some personal information for the numbers? It just struck me as odd, and maybe paranoid.

So, after he left the store, I went to the trash and rummaged through it for the card pieces . . . okay, no I didn’t. I drove away before he even got in his car. But this post was starting to seem really weak and aimless, so I thought maybe it needed something to make it interesting. But I got nothing.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

I had to get an MRI today. [Nothing serious.] I thought I had gotten an MRI scan before, but it turns out what I remembered was just a CT scan (for something completely unrelated). An MRI is a much longer procedure.

The first interesting thing about this procedure is that the MRI is not in the office building where I signed in and waited, but rather, in a big truck trailer outside. You have to ride a lift up about five feet to get to the door. Inside the trailer looks like a very small office, and is cold.

The nurse/tech had asked me all kinds of questions before taking me into the trailer, including if I had had any surgery on my heart, brain, or eyes, if I was allergic to anything, and whether I had any metal in my eyes. Huh? Metal in my eyes? She was going through the checklist, so I didn’t get to ask what kind of metal someone might have in their eyes.

I had to leave all of my stuff (cell phone, wallet, etc.) in a basket, of course, but I didn’t have to change clothes. The MRI machine, itself, looks like a Star Trek photon torpedo tube. (Only a small number of people reading this will get a good idea of what it looks like from that description, but it’s the first thing that came to mind when I saw it.) I laid down on a sliding rail, with a cushion under my knees.

Lying on the rail, the nurse/tech asked me if I was claustrophobic. She gave me a squeeze bulb, like they use to check your blood pressure, to squeeze if I had a problem and needed to come out of the MRI machine. She gave me a pair of earplugs and I inserted them. The earplugs kind of confused me – this machine wasn’t making any sound at the moment, and it looked like a normal, but big, piece of doctor’s office equipment, so I didn’t expect it would be noisy.

The rail table slowly rolled back into the MRI machine, my head going in first, and I was surprised at how really tight the tunnel was. I fit in it just fine, but I can’t imagine how they’d get a large person in there. I mean, the top was about three inches from my nose, and my elbows were probably just two inches from the sides. I don’t think I could have moved my arms from across my chest to above my head.

There was a little speaker in the top of the tube, right in front of my face, and that’s how the nurse/tech communicated with me. “Okay, I’m starting it. This will take about forty-five seconds.” The speaker was loud in my face, so maybe that’s why I needed the earplugs. Then there were several loud thumps under me and the machine started humming. So that’s what the earplugs were for. I was surprised at how noisy it all was. The machine looks so space-age that I expected just a light hum or beep.

When the scan was over, the nurse/tech said through the speaker, “This next one will last about thirty seconds.” Then again with the rapid thumps and vibrating humming.

The scanning was easy, and the volume was not disconcerting, but it was just very different than I expected. When that scan was finished, the nurse/tech said, “That’s it for those. Now this next scan will take about four minutes.”

What? When I had a CT scan, the whole thing was over in about sixty seconds. Oh well, I could wait in there another four minutes. The only thing starting to concern me was that my legs were not completely comfortable. When I had laid down, with the cushion under my knees, I sort of held my legs up a bit instead of fully resting them down no the pillow. Not a problem to hold up for a couple minutes, but they were already starting to get uncomfortable.

The machine loudly thumped, clicked, hummed, and thrummed for a few minutes. I shifted my head just slightly, enough to turn my eyes to see a bit more up and down the tube. I couldn’t see down because my arms across my chest blocked that view, but I could see a little up above my head. My head was near the far end of the tube, so I could see a small area at the back of the trailer, behind the machine. I could see a ventilation shaft, what looked like plumbing tubes, and a drape of shear fabric.

The few minutes passed and the machine’s racket quieted down. The nurse/tech announced that the next step was going to take three minutes. Geez, how long does this take? I thought. Mentally, I was doing fine, but holding my legs up without being able to move them for fear of screwing up the scan was now fully uncomfortable.

The thumping, clicking, humming, and thrumming this time seemed to be taking on a tempo. It sounded like some kind of experimental, industrial, heavy metal music.

Thump, thump. Clickclickclickclickclick. Thump. Hummmmm, thrummmm, hummmm. Thump. I imagined the humming saying, “daaa lot, daaa lot,” and eventually turning into, “taa daa, taa daa.”

The sounds and vibrations eventually died down, and the expected announcement blared in my face, “Good, good. This next one will take about five minutes.” The thumps and clicks started before I managed to say, “Can I shift my legs a moment?” The sounds stopped and I assumed that meant the nurse/tech heard me and stopped the machine, so I shifted my legs what little I could in the tube. Once I settled again, the machine started up back up.

My legs were more comfortable now, and I began to accept I might be in this contraption for a long while. I thought I could doze a little, despite the loud mechanical sounds. The five minutes seemed very long. It just kept going and going. I heard the music of the sounds again, and I was just starting to close my eyes when the machine powered down.

I looked at the speaker, expecting to hear how many minutes the procedure would continue, but after a few seconds, the rail bed started pulling me back out feet first. Once out of the torpedo tube, and retrieving my stuff from the basket, I saw the computer screen with some MRI images. I was impressed—I could plainly see my internal organs and bones.

The nurse/tech explained she couldn’t talk to me about the images because that is the doctor’s place. She took me out of the trailer and we rode down the lift. That was it, I was all done. It was not a bad experience, by any means, but I really wish I had known how long I’d be in the tube so I could have gotten comfortable and maybe napped. All in all, a pretty interesting experience for something completely stationary.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com