After relocating from East to West Cleveland, the divide buffeted by a single bridge but seen as defining as the Mason/Dixon line to locals, I felt the inante conditioned consumer urge to stake my flag in the community by spending money at a local shop. Anyone who has been to west Cleveland is aware of the incredible amount of "specialty shops" that cater to the specific and the superflouous at an even clip. A born cheapskate, anything other than food, shelter, and a modest wardrobe is an uneeded expenditiure. So parusing through the "vintage" shop, running my finger over the dusty relics that will one day be the artifacts that define our culture, I marveled at how age seemed to mirror price and quickly made my retreat.
Next door was a vintage toy shop, Big Fun, which also had a sex toy corner, I've always thought the combination of the two under one roof to be a bit tacky and questionable but that is a essay for another night. A house of artifaces of bygone generations proving even Dick Cheney had a childhood. After an unenthusiastic lap i came across a box of 25 cent comics. A sucker for a deal, and remember, a born cheapskate, I bought copius amounts of devalued '90's holofoils, dubious failed storylines and characters, and indecipherable third acts to missing miniseries. Then i saw it. In the back of the box, screaming at me with its neon orange cover, Invisibles #1. I had never read any issues nor had any idea of the plot, but holding it in my hands i felt something electric within. Something primal, sublime, like remnants of a forgotten dream materializing before me, suddenly spoke to me. I scanned the store, thinking they put the comic in the wrong box and would snatch my prize away. A quarter later, my life changed.
The first page with Dane Mcgowan hurling a moltov cocktail in the air declaring "Fuuuucccckk!" demanded my attention and told me this was not just a story but a manifesto, a declaration against the stale and uninspired. After reading the issue i never looked back, digesting all subsequent 99 issues with reckless abandon. I cannot claim to understand everything Morrison wrote or even a few of the words i still think he made up, but i grasp the scope, the vision and the hope that the book encapsulated: that we, all of us together, will one day wake up and stop fretting over useless nonsense. the grenade on the cover, threatening to detonate at any minute, is a symbol of the weaponization of the human mind against conformity and oppression that the series pounds the war drums against.
Like Tyler Durden in Fight Club, the gang in Invisibles are agents of change and avatars for a coming age of self-made divinity. Many times I felt an intimacy with the characters and storylines they experienced that i have, to this day, never recaptured in any other book. As Morrison put himself into the book as King Mob, I also felt he put himself into the readership creating a kinetic, endless loop of information we all simultaneously share regardless of time or space.