The Power of Pop Culture Amazes Me. Truly, at times it can mean more to us than family, friends or even our lives.

You ever had an experience that made you stop and think? No, I don't mean once a year, or even once every month or so, but one that becomes a yardstick for how you measure your life? This is one I had, one I still think about often, even though it’s been almost 20 years gone. I think about my friend Justin, a bright, energetic ten year old, who had to be the biggest Spider-Man fan I have ever seen. Spider-Man is credited by me and by his parents with keeping Justin alive.

I first met Justin’s parents when they came into the video store where I was working. The store was just a couple blocks from Children's Hospital in Seattle, so we would get a lot of parents and kids coming in, looking for movies to pass the time. Pat and Diane came in and asked me if we had any Spider-Man movies. We didn't, (this was way before the Tobey Maguire/Andrew Garfield blockbusters) but I knew there collections of the old TV series, both animated and live, so I said I'd check around. They then asked me if I knew of any comic stores in the area. They had a sick son, and wanted to get him something special, like the first appearance of Spider-Man. I recommended a shop I knew, told them that the first Spider-Man might cost several thousand dollars, but they could get a reprint. They thanked me and said they would take a look at the comic store.

I didn't see them again for several months. By then I’d left the video store and was now working at very the comic shop I'd recommended when Pat and Diane walked in with their two boys. That was when I finally met Justin, or Jus' as he liked me to call him.

Funny Books

Justin had cancer. He was smaller than boys his age, thin and pale with his bald head hidden under a baseball cap. His legs were encased in metal braces, the scars of past operations visible under the straps. He’d spent months at Children’s Hospital, undergoing treatments; his parents watching him grow smaller and sicker each day. The doctors thought Jus' might have it beaten, everyone was holding on to hope. He was due to go home soon, but he would still have to make a five-hour weekly drive each way for his chemo treatments. He wanted to set up a pull box so he wouldn't miss any comics. He hated missing out on things.

The highlight of his week, after the treatments, was coming into the store and getting his Spidey comics. He loved comics. Loved them. Loved everything about them, Spider-Man most of all. He could quote the corniest dialog, tell you which ads were in which issues, and who wrote the most letters to Marvel Comics that month. He read every page, then read them all over again. He'd look at the racks, ask me what was best this week, and then grab the stack from his hold box. He immediately started the sorting. He put each comic into little piles. His dad Pat told me the three stacks Jus' made were: 1) comics to start reading now, right now! 2) Comics that he would get to on the ride home, 3) Comics he'd let his little brother read while Jus read, "the good ones." His parents were letting him use what would have been his college money to buy back issues, and as many new ones as he could read. It keep him distracted, kept his mind away from the cancer and the chemo, the interminable trips, the poking and prodding, not seeing his friends, and facing at best an uncertain future. Like I said, he loved comics, it was his better world.

He reminded me of when I was ten. The fun of summer, the feel of cheap newsprint, the taste of the grape Slurpee I’d buy to wash down Batman’s adventures. I got on some of the comic forums, requesting old Spider-Man comics for Justin. I hoped other people remembered how fun comics could be to a kid. The response I got was fantastic. Several boxes came in from people all over America, with as few as a couple comics, to large boxes of a couple hundred. All people who knew what it was like to have a four-color friend. Justin wrote a thank you note for each stack he got in. He couldn't believe there were that many people who cared and took the time. For weeks there was a box waiting for him every time he came in. He'd tear into each one, and set aside any that he already had. These he'd take back to the hospital to give to the other kids, (This is something the store owner would suggest to people who brought in comics we didn't want to buy, to donate them to the kids, it was a tax write off, and could make you feel good as well) a lot of my old comics ended up there.

The Clone Wars