Because that is where I live life, wholly and fully without caution. By flying through the “Danger Zone,” one forms an unspoken and unwritten pact with El Diablo, and I have signed it with my very plasma.
Thus I found myself returning from a few merry libations with a fellow daredevil an evening or so ago, reentering a home that was still powerless from the night’s frightening wind storm that was delivered to our doorstep, perhaps courtesy of that day’s freaking meteor.
What does a man do in this day and age with no electricity? Most would curl up in positions fetal, suckling on their thumb in hopes of culling a bit of courage from its grooves. I, however (for I am brave), propped a lantern on the pillow beside my head and began reading Stan Lee and Jack Kirby’s first issue of “The X-men” by its light.
Amidst the verbose superheroic exchanges therein, I began to recall what an amazing and wonderful creation a first issue is. Not specifically in this instance, but in all instances! What glamour, to reveal your characters to an unsuspecting audience, projecting their origins across The Great Expanse, naked and vulnerable. What sensation, to establish fictional vendettas and grudges that may last an eternity. What possibility, to decide which boastful blurb best beckons big bunches o’ blushing buyers!
Imagine, if I may be so candid and bold, a world comprised solely of first issues! Does it frighten you, or does it make you dance wildly?