I believe in the twenty-five cent comic bin and the one dollar DVD. Housed within them are a treasure trove of high school grade writing, art so bad your eyes demand bleach, and weirdness that you are convinced only acid could conjure. I believe in digging around for such goodness as Mike Grell era Green Arrow and horrid pieces of dreck like when Wonder Woman faces Egg-Fu, a giant mustachioed computerized egg. Every time I take the plunge, my parents boggle, “Why waste your money on such crap?” And in one sense, they’re right. Ninja Destroyer is no work of Akira Kurosawa, nor could it have inspired Quentin Tarantino’s next blockbuster; however, its classic essence lies in the incoherency of plot, the bad acting, the Oompa-Loompa ninjas. And in the end, despite how much I sometimes act otherwise, it’s not about what other people say is good. It’s about what I find is worth it. It’s the power of being an individual in discovering what you find entertaining, enlightening.
My choice is a part of me, my individuality. And despite the human tendency to feel forced to homogenize and then glorify those who do not, I’m not so convinced individuality is such a grand ideal. The common image is of standing on a precipice, balancing between the great void of modern American consumerism, and just being you. Yet while there is courage walking the thin line, I find instead that it takes more courage to live amongst those who would willingly see through eyes not their own. There should be a black hole metaphor here, something on darkness, light, and individual heroism, a deep statement on the meaning of life. But in the average day, there isn’t much black/white or cerulean/fuchsia dichotomy to muse on; especially so considering I’ve never encountered a metaphorical cerulean/fuchsia dichotomy. I wouldn’t mind discovering one some day, though.
Because that, I find, is what interests me most. Finding the odd bits in life, signs in the grocery store that spell jalapeno with an h and pi, recognizing the origin of that Chinese-made action figure at the dollar store. I like going to restaurants off the road with funky names like China Bob, owned by locals more often in the red than black, spending hours discussing the deep symbolism of a single page until all the participants are more confused than before.
As I see it, nothing is more important than living your life as you choose to, not as someone tells you to. Despite how hard I’m sure Entertainment Weekly tried to persuade me otherwise, I don’t regret paying seven bucks to see The Core, if only for the scene of dead pigeons dive-bombing Paris. Because I like what I like, watch as I wish, believe as I do. I don’t make my fashion choices based on the taste of Nicole Ritchie’s closet, and my playlist certainly doesn’t mirror Clear Channel’s.
I take care of the place while the Master is away.
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