I used to collect comics. Got some Batman back to the 50s.
But the talk of Playboy reminds me of a story. (What doesn't at this age).
Back during my shameful years when I made the worst decision of my life and enrolled at the University of Alabama in order to be closer to my girlfriend and my friends from high school, I moved into an apartment that was not far from a facility where they housed mentally challenged veterans -- I guess that's what they were.
There was this one guy who was a resident there and he would walk out the gate, across the highway and stroll through the neighborhood. We would be outside shooting basketball and see him shambling along, talking to himself and shaking and jittering like he was being electrocuted. He had a cigarette in his mouth at all times and if he didn't light the next one off the one that was burning, he had no hope of lighting another because his hands shook too much to use a lighter or matches. My friends and I were sort of assholish at the time I suppose. We named him Shakin' Jake.
Just up from our apartment complex was a convenience store. Friend of mine had a job there and sometimes when he needed to be somewhere else (girl-related) he'd call me to come cover for him. Got me arrested, but that's a different story. One day I was up there and Shakin' Jake came in. There was a little girl in there with her mom. She was getting a drink out of the cooler and Jake came up behind her. He reached up to get a Pepsi and said in a deep, gravelly voice (think a cross between Dumbledore and Foster Brooks) said "You ought to get a peh-peh-pehhhh-pppp-BLLUUUUAAAAARGGGFFFF" Puked on the kid's head. I had to clean that crap up.
Several months later I was alone at the apartment. I think it was spring break or something, I had no money and all my roomates were gone. I come out of the shower and can see down the hall that the front door is standing open. I put a towel around my waist and walk into the living room. Jake was sitting in the only chair we had. The crazy bastard had gone into the fridge and gotten himself a glass of tea. Being college students my friends and I had a decent stack of Playboys, Penthouses and other magazines. Jake has his glass of tea and a magazine.
I stand there in amazement, struggling for words. I'm not a complete ass. I realize the guy probably has some mental problems. I recognize that he is a veteran and could have suffered his mental issues while protecting this country. So I try to play it cool.
"What are you doing in my house, man?" I ask him as calmly as possible.
Jake turns to me, lifts up the magazine and holds it out in my direction. In his rocks-tumbled-in-syrup voice he growls out "These pitcher books makes mah dick hawrd!"
My response quickly changed to Get. The. Fuck. Out. Now.
"Wait just a got-damn minute, I ain't even got mah sammich!"
G.T.F.O.N, motherfucker.
He got mad and said he was taking the magazine.
Get. The Fuck. Out.
Even though the four of us who lived in the apartment couldn't pool our money and come up with $5, I also dragged the chair out. Doused it with lighter fluid and set it on fire.
Got in trouble for that too. Locked the doors from that point on, though.
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