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For the Love of God, Don’t Turn Your Brain Off August 3, 2001 You may recall that before my publishing house really got going that I used to do promotions and marketing for Comix Experience. Part of my duties as writer/editor of their newsletter back then was also that of printer; when I finished writing all of the reviews of upcoming comics, completed the scanning and layout of the issue, and trafficked the other columnists' work, one final injustice was that I couldn't just rest on my laurels... I also had to xerox the damn thing, too. Printing the 750 copies each month was more than a right of passage; it was a sacred duty that I used to abhor and now look back on through the rosy glasses of… no, that would still suck, I’m pretty sure. Anyway, in addition to printing the damn thing, I also had to go get the paper, because store owner Brian Hibbs doesn't have a car. Can you believe it? The guy's 33 years old and doesn't have a driver's license! So, one time, I scooted over to the store where we got all of our business supplies. It's a wholesale shop that's also "open to the public" ... you know, one of those big-ass stores where you can get anything from boxes of paper clips to cans of Jolt. Comix Experience has an account there; they’re not their biggest account, but neither are they the smallest. I'd guess they probably spend about a grand a month on paper, supplies, and whatnot with this place that shall remain nameless. Ah, why do that? Why can't they take responsibili ty? It was Arvey's, OK? A nationally-known chain of office supply stores, not unlike a Staples or something. So, all right, I admit I was in a bit of a surly mood (some might say, "as per usual"), but all I wanted was to go in, get that month's paper supply, sign for it on our account, and leave. So, I'm sporting my Astronauts in Trouble writer's jacket, my officially-licensed Channel Seven baseball cap, and my scooter gloves and backpack. This is a scooter backpack; the kind that rides way up on your shoulders and nestles right in your back between the shoulder blades. Not one of those side-slung ladies' things. This is impor tant for later, so pay attention. So I stride in purposefully, first thing in the morning, nobody in the store, and the functionary behind the first cash register says, "Sir, I need your backpack." Never having had been asked for my backpack in this place before, which I've been going to to pick up the damn xerox paper for the previous four years, I say, "Why?"

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