Last summer I regaled the online community with my sad tale of a childhood habit transformed into a lifelong obsession. Entitled Confessions of a Comics Reader, I detailed the multitude of times since my youthful consumption of paneled wonders in the nineteen-seventies that I tried to give up on comics books altogether. There were many nice, clean potential endpoints for the shameful collecting that came and went, always resulting with me still making regular treks to some sort of emporium of superheroes and art comix to purchase the most recent stapled servings of sequential art storytelling. With the publication of Giant Size Astonishing X-Men #1, Joss Whedon’s final issue chronicling the exploits of Marvel’s band of merry mutants, I was finally able to call it quits. Or so I thought.

This relapse was immediate and it wasn’t complete. I didn’t establish pull lists under assumed names and start hiding comics around the house so I could I could surreptitiously read them. I didn’t even go into a comic shop for over a year, only venturing into one primarily out of a mix of curiosity and nostalgia when I traveled to Madison. Thanks to a tip from a a friend of mine, I realized that my old favored shop resided at a new location (I previously thought they had closed down as a brick-and-mortar store), and I decided to check it out. I didn’t spend a nickel in there. I was impressed with the layout and the general professional feel of the store, but the walls of current comics added up to an eyesore. As opposed to the bold pop art masterworks of my youth, these covers were aggressive smears of indistinguishable dark colors. It provoked the worst sort of sensory overload, sending me out with no regrets about purchases left unmade.

While I stopped buying comic books, I never stopped paying attention to them. There have been temptations aplenty, but nothing that compelled my to fish money out of my pocket to purchase a single issue. As I always knew and acknowledged I would, I purchased key trade paperback collections and patronized my local library for volumes both highly refined and chewily mass appeal. Weekly visits remained unnecessary and unappealing. Then there came Wednesday Comics, the latest brainchild of DC Comics Editorial Art Director Mark Chiarello, who earned my everlasting attention with the spectacular series Solo. Printed to resemble a the comics section of a Sunday broadsheet newspaper, Wednesday Comics was not likely to translate effectively to any other form. Waiting for a collection wasn’t a palatable option. Given the unique demands of reworking the material, it may not even be feasible. To read this, to experience this, required weekly trips to a comics shop.

The images I saw from the publication were simply too alluring. As the photo above indicates, I caved. I found a place in town more agreeable that the comic shops I’d visited here previously and began making weekly purchases, sticking to Wednesday Comics with one other irresistable dalliance with a monthly publication. As I type, there are three issues remaining, and I fully expect that my comic celibacy will return once that final edition has been procured. Because, as much as I enjoy Wednesday Comics this tumble off the wagon has provided fresh evidence that I’ve made the correct choice.

Explaining that requires a little more detail, but no epic comic book adventure is truly complete without at least one tantalizing “To Be Continued…” so here it is now. Be here this weekend for the senses-shattering conclusion that we had to call “The Fate of the Four-Colors!”

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)