When Did I Become An Outsider In My Own Kingdom!?!

I ask this question, because it’s a thought that’s been burbling in my head ever since I set foot in the comic book store to purchase tickets for the impending arrival of Neil-O (All hail, our wise and learn-ed master, give us this day our daily tale, and deliver us from boredom…) and was once again struck by how I so-did-not-fit-in.

This is probably another one of those old-man “Why when I was your age…” diatribes, but heck, I’m over 30, I think I’m entitled somewhat…

Why, when I was your age, comic book stores were an altogether different beast than what I encounter in Singapore, circa 2005. As a wee lad thirsting for adventure, excitement and other things that backwards speaking frog Jedi masters crave not, my earliest experiences with a full-on Comic Book Store (Not to be confused with a drug store or convenience store, where I initially picked up my monthlies) was the Nerd Capital of the city, Warp One comic books.

Okay, not strictly true, first it was Starbase 12, then eventually that closed down for reasons I can no longer recall, or maybe it just morphed into Warp One.

This store, like so many run by passion, nerdiness and a distinct lack of style, was jam packed with books, comics, toys and a plethora of other geekitude all piled willy nilly on the shelves. Stepping into Warp One was like stepping into the nightmarish environment of a kid’s bedroom if said kid could afford anything he wanted but STILL refused to clean up. The walls were lined with posters, the shelves racked with comics, the floor an embarrassing carpet style that has been perenially burned into the collective memory of any child of the suburban 70′s-80′s as “Rumpus Room” and the clientele? My God, do you even need to ask? It fell into two extremes, the obessive, morose thin, dressed all in black prententious pseudo-intellectuals that lacked the predatory instincts to fully exploit their appeal with Goth chicks, and the amiable fat kids who developed a cheerful, obsessive personality as a defense mechanism against a society that tolerated them, but only just.

Into this Oasis of geekdom, the misfists of highschool and university would pour, entertaining endless debates about who would in win a fight of Federation ships versus an Imperial/Rebel Fleet, what would happen if Superman ever had sex with Lois Lane, and why the hell the Smurfs weren’t used by modern communist countries as the par exemplar that their collective efforts should aspire to.

It was, in short, an embarrasing collection of pop culture regalia inhabited by equally embarrassing social outcasts who came here to find solace and commonality that the Real World refused to offer.

Now here I am, in a Singapore comic book store, and despite the fact that this should be a harbor of safety in a cold and unforgiving sea, I feel even more isolated and out of place, because I Don’t Rate This Joint.

It’s a strange thing, to walk into a comic store and find young urban professionals, in suits and other uniforms of office, perusing the goods, while you walk in dressed like a typical geek in some kind of t-shirt and comfy pants, sans proper footwear and realize that the place has been taken over by the yuppies. It’s even more disturbing when you talk to the cashier, who is not some very fat, or very thin male with glasses and an almost hostile pride in their knowledge of comic minutae, but is instead a small, cute as a button Chinese girl that looks like she’d be just as much at home hosting a Cotillion, and ask her about a comic–or in this case, tickets to see Neil-O–and have that person blink in total and complete incomprehension before saying “Um… Let me call for that.”

But most disheartening of all, the true sign that you are in a foreign land, is the fact that the comic book store feels like a Real Goddamn Store. With classy shelves, display cases, things meticulously arranged, not a piece of used furniture anywhere, no table with nerds screaming at each other over a brilliant tactical move in the modeled landscape that is their Warhammer playing field, and the entire ambience of the place dripping with cultured, expensive, stylish, hip urban taste.

My basic question being, “When the hell did comics get taken out of the hands of people that know and love them and handed over lock and key to The Enemy? These are the people that scorned us and hated us and now they’re driving us out of our refuge too?!?”

Or perhaps it’s just old nerd elitism unable to accept the idea that what made us once outcasts has finally been accepted by society and we’re not that uncool anymore…