This year for Christmas, as with all years, I gave my Dad Comic Books.
My family, maybe like yours, doesn’t understand me at times. Some of them try, many of them don’t. I admit I’m a big weird geek who likes strange things, though from their perspective I’m still playing with toys and watching cartoons far beyond an age where they find that sort of thing palatable. When I make money from being a creative weirdo they’re proud. When I’m not, well…
I can try to justify my life to them but I realized a long time ago that I don’t have to. I’m myself and that’s the only person I’ll ever be.
I’ve given up hope I’ll convert any family to my (admittedly) eclectic tastes. While I lived in NYC the conversations I had with my fam at the yearly holiday party were generally centered on “When are you moving home?” Now that I live in my cave slightly closer to my kin the conversation is “Why did you ever what to live there,” when it’s not “So when are you moving back?”
NO, I can’t convince any of them to watch Metalocalypse or read the Goon. They’ll never get what I see in Futurama or Neil Gaiman. They’ve heard of 300 the film but couldn’t care less that it was a comic, they don’t see what so exciting about the Dr. Who Christmas special (SOOOO GOOOD!) and they sure don’t see much of my view-point.
The one guy I reach out to with all this is my old Man. Continue reading