Kevin Smith and David Mack, �Daredevil: Vol. 1�
No need to say anything about this book, which collects issues 1 � 15, skipping issue 12 for some reason. I read them when they first came out as individual issues. I read them again in collected form for both Smith and Mack in separate collections. There is absolutely no reason for me to have this version.
Except that it�s a hardback, and I�m a dork.
Anyhoo, the other day I went to the other local dive bar. I�m going to my usual hangout less and less these days. Fewer of my friends go there anymore, except to stop in for one drink and perhaps some reminiscing about how fun the place used to be.
But it�s not like the place is suffering a lack of business. In fact it�s the opposite. The place has more people on any given night than I remember happening in the past. It�s getting harder to find a place to sit, and they�ve loaded the jukebox up with bad heavy metal, which this new crowd loves to play, and the newer bartenders like to play at full volume. Worse is that the new crowd loves to bray along like drunken banshees. The collected IQ of these new people, after a bit of side table observation, seems to be less than the number of people attending.
This new crowd is also significantly younger, which I don�t mind, but it is hard to relate with people who are just discovering the Sex Pistols. When I show up wearing an old Ramones shirt (or Jawbreaker, or DOA, or Born Against, etc.) and get complemented on it, they inevitably ask where I got it, probably hoping to score one for themselves. When I tell them that I purchased it at one of these bands shows, they questioner�s eyes get wide and distant. They�re impressed or jealous, but mostly they look as if I told them I was in Dallas on November 22, 1963.
Plus, I�m noticing that people are getting uglier with each generation.
So again, I was at the other place. There was less of a crowd, and I was talking with a friend at the side table when the smallish crowd all quickly gathered around the front entrance. I leaned over, squinting toward the door, looking in-between the legs of the crowd. On the ground was a man lying on his back.
The murmurs started quickly. He fell. He passed out. He�s drunk. Then the bartender quickly stomped back behind the bar, grabbing the phone, as he passed my table, he shouted over his shoulder.
�He�s been stabbed. Another banner night for The Cinebar.�
Nobody knew what had happened. The reporter instincts kicked in, and I started questioning people who were there. Most were too interested in watching the blood pool around the entrance, but everybody had a different story. It ballooned from him walking up and collapsing to him walking outside and getting stuck several times by a guy walking behind him.
There�s only one exit to this place, and we were all cordoned inside. This forced seclusion made the smallness of the bar all the more apparent. As the bartenders were busy with talking with the cops and paramedics, as well as trying to keep the gawkers out of the way, I couldn�t get a refill. My friend was flipping through my Acosta book, so I had nothing to do but wonder if the person I had invited to join me was still outside while I counted the misspellings on the homemade signs about how there was to be no dancing and drug dealers would be reported.
Finally, the body was moved, and a water/bleach combination was poured over the entranceway. Most of the patrons filed out for fresh air and compare stores with people who were forced to remain outside. I followed. My friend was still there, smoking quietly against the wall.
�You gotta admit, I invite you to the classiest places,� I said.
The stories grew. People were so loud and boisterous about what they witnessed that is was impossible to ignore. As we overheard one guy explaining that the guy was ratpacked by some young kids who sped away in a lowrider, my friend rolled her eyes.
�What?�
�I was walking up when it happened, I was perhaps five feet away from the door. That guy walked down to the entranceway and collapsed. The cops passed by me, coming from around the corner, and they were carrying the weapon.�
And apparently the attacker, to quote the Beastie Boys, did it like this, he did it like that, he did it with a whiffleball bat.
I stood in one spot and blinked at her repeatedly.
�What?� she asked.
�A bat?�
�A whiffleball bat.�
�You�re fucking with me.�
�You ever been hit with a whiffleball bat? I have. It hurts.� Her face tightened up, eyes flashing with anger that could only come from remembrance. I didn't press.
Oh, that poor guy. Imagine having to explain this one to your homies.
