by Mike Madrid
I never rent foreign movies. And for that I blame the Japanese.
Now, I’m not saying this because I don’t like Japanese movies. On the contrary, I’ll watch Throne of Blood, Battle Royale or The Calamari Wrestler any day. It’s the watching that is the problem. Several years ago, I was introduced to a hobby genre called garage kits. These are highly detailed, beautifully sculpted resin model kits of superheroes, or monsters, or characters from movies. Both large companies and small independent entrepreneurs manufacture garage kits, but by far the highest quality kits come from Japan, where these things are an extremely popular hobby. Besides anime characters and robots, the Japanese also produce numerous, very lifelike, model kits of nude or underwear clad females. And these are great for a geek like me because I can customize them to be anyone I want. So in my case, I simply sand off the nipples and pubic hair, and I can transform a model into one of my favorite comic book heroines. I change the hair, add a boot or a belt, do a bit of creative painting, and voila – I now have a model of Ms. Marvel, or Lady Blackhawk, or Shadow Lass. And since I do most of this work in the evenings while I’m “watching “ TV, my eyes are so focused on making the perfect Wonder Girl ponytail or Huntress mask that I don’t look at the screen that much. This style of viewing makes it hard to read a lot of subtitles, which is why I don’t rent foreign movies. So it’s much easier to “watch” an English language DVD that I mainly have to listen to. And that explains the dearth of foreign movies on my Netflix queue, and likewise my denunciation of the Japanese for having led me down this path.
I might try to justify my hobby by saying that I am taking these slightly exploitational model kits and redeeming them with my conversions. I’m taking a model of a nubile, sexualized young Japanese woman and making it into an image of strong, confident female hero. But that wouldn’t be completely true. The truth is that my model-building hobby is just another aspect of my addiction.
My name is Mike, and I’m a Completist.
They say that with cigarettes “one is too many and a thousand is not enough”. Well. How about comic books? Or Bob’s Big Boy coin banks? Or souvenir shot glasses? Or rose bushes? Because the same reasoning seems to apply to me as far as these things go.
Years ago, I read an editorial in Metropolitan Home that said that “three of anything is a collection”. And let me tell you, that fact was burned into my brain more firmly than the date of my parents’ wedding anniversary or the names of US state capitals. This “three’s a collection” rule affected my flea market browsing from there on in. So when I became interested in turn of the century photos of children celebrating their First Holy Communion, I thought that if I bought three pictures I’d have a collection. But I couldn’t stop at three. I’d go to garage sales or flea markets in California, New York, Mexico City, or Paris, and see some oddity that I didn’t yet have in my Communion photo collection – duos, trios, a cross-eyed girl sitting on an elaborately carved throne, a grave young boy holding up a flower-draped cross looking as though he’d just set foot on a new continent. And I wouldn’t be able to resist any of them, because I needed to have a complete collection. “No child left behind” meant something entirely different to me. I was like a thrift shop Mia Farrow assembling my brood of castoffs, except in my case most of these kids were long dead. And so, three pictures grew to almost 50, now lining the walls of the staircase in my own metropolitan home. People see the collection and assume that it’s all family photos, when in actuality it’s just the track marks on my Completist’s arm.
Let’s go back to the model kits. Over 15 years ago I happened to see a model of underwear clad Japanese girl in a San Francisco shop specializing in imported toys from Asia. I thought I could very easily make her look like one of my favorite heroines, Phantom Girl. That was my “gateway drug.” Soon I was buying garage kit magazines, ordering kits through the mail and online, searching unmarked Tokyo streets for hobby shops. I was a recreational model kit maker until I experimented with the hard stuff — Wonder Woman. Once I made my first Wonder Woman model, I was hopelessly hooked. Because of my Completist disorder, I had to make every different version of Wonder Woman from her 60-year history in order to feel sated. So I made the 1940’s version, the 50’s version, the mod 60’s version with the white pantsuit, the 90’s pseudo Versace bondage costume. Then I had to make models of her kid sister Wonder Girl, who alone wore at least 20 different costumes. Then I needed to start on Wonder Woman’s villains, and then her boyfriends, all in order to have a “complete’ Wonder figure collection. It’s an endless task, like counting grains of sand on the beach. But perfect for an addict like me.
You might ask where I keep all of these Wonder Woman model kits? Simple, I have a spare bedroom, whimsically referred to as the “Wonder Woman” room. The room grew out of a necessity-my collection of Wonder Woman memorabilia was growing so large that I needed a place to house it. You see, I started with buying the odd Wonder Woman action figure, maybe some old comics, or a 70’s Pepsi glass that I’d find at a flea market. But in the 90’s I hit a bad patch, and I started mainlining-eBay. My friend Tia innocently introduced me to eBay, and I had a “lost weekend” that lasted several years. I felt like I had stumbled into Ali Baba’s treasure cave — vintage Wonder Woman watches, mittens, comics, marionettes, McDonald’s Happy Meal toys from Belgium, Australian juice glasses, roller skates. I found a pan to make a Wonder Woman cake, which of course, became one of my signature desserts (a real crowd pleaser at a dinner party, by the way). I scoured eBay nightly to see what new gems would dance their way across my computer screen. I had to have them all. In the worst phases of my addiction, I was known to set my alarm clock for 3AM, get out of bed, and slip in with the highest bid in on a much-needed Wonder Woman item just as the auction was closing. I would awaken to find an angry e-mail from some other Completist addict who I had cheated out of a “high.” Even the most horrible item was heaven sent. A ghastly unlicensed Wonder Woman knockoff action figure found in Mexico City — a source of unparalleled glee. I couldn’t wait to get off that plane to add my newest find to my collection. There are still nights that I lament the fact that my collection is missing a rare Wonder Woman cookie jar from the 70’s. It leaves me feeling…incomplete.
Much of this Completist obsession derives from the fact that I’ve collected comics for most of my life. Comic book collecting is one of the ultimate Completist pursuits, along with, I assume, stamp and coin collecting. For years I’ve gone to comic book conventions and seen other guys with their “want lists” and their pads and notebooks, checking off a much-needed issue number that they’ve just happily acquired. There is no greater joy than to find that one missing issue that fill in a hole in your run of issues. It should come as no surprise that I always carry a notebook with me that contains the list of the issue numbers of Wonder Woman comics that I need. I was so happy a few years back when I found a copy of The Adventures Of Jerry Lewis #117 where Wonder Woman was a guest star. No stone unturned. I wish that I could say that my Completist tendencies end with comics, but I would be lying.
My dear friend Bettina has said of me that I’ve never met a gingham print that I don’t like. Truer words were, perhaps, never spoken. I am crazy for a gingham shirt. I have almost 20, and it’s not enough. Every time I look in my closet, I feel like I’m still lacking a certain color. That’s absurd, since I have gingham shirts in green, yellow, red, black, orange, mustard, and multiple shades of blue. But I don’t have purple, so my collection isn’t complete. I even had a couple of gingham shirts custom made when I was in India last year, because the tailor had some unique colors not yet in my collection. I once had a Brooks Brothers pink gingham shirt that was the jewel of my shirt hoard, and really complemented a California tan. It met an early demise at the hands of a leaky ballpoint pen. I still bemoan the loss of that shirt the way I would the mourn the passing of a beloved family pet. But finding the perfect pink gingham shirt to replace my fallen favorite fuels my Completist nature to live for tomorrow.
My beloved Brooks Brothers pink gingham shirt lives on in a new incarnation – I made it into a handkerchief. And so it moved from one sick Completist camp to another. I always carry a handkerchief because that’s one of the things that a gentleman does, along with holding a door open for a lady and being a good drunk. So, of course, since I am a Completist, I have to have a handkerchief in every color and pattern to match whatever else I’m wearing. And that’s how it goes with everything that I like. Liberty of London ties? Can’t get enough. My tie rack always looks like springtime in England. Clarks Wallabee shoes? I have them in every color — tan, chocolate, rust, tobacco, even the somewhat hard to wear olive. (Even a Completist like me has to draw the line at black, the color the stoners in my high school used to wear.) I have every Roxy Music album on vinyl and CD, but I still had to buy a pricey box set collection to get a few rare b-sides and alternate tracks. Religious medals? Bring ‘em on! I used to collect religious medals and add them to a chain that I wore around my neck. It got to be so laden with divine protection that people could hear me jingling like a Labrador retriever when I approached. That chain felt as heavy as one of those lead aprons that the technician puts on you when you get dental x-rays. But I couldn’t bear to take any of the medals off, because I’m a Completist, and a Catholic one to boot. Eventually, at the risk of injuring my neck from all of the weight, I had to pare down the heavenly fortification that I wore.
Being a Completist can be a lonely existence of addiction, mainly because many people don’t understand the need to acquire obsessively, and conclusively. And there’s not much comradeship in Completism, because it’s a cutthroat, competitive world. I once crossed swords with a fellow Completist over the Internet. We were bidding on the same eBay item — a much-coveted Supergirl 7-11 Slurpee cup from 1973. Being a cunning eBay whiz, I naturally outbid him. He e-mailed me immediately to ask if I’d sell him the cup, because it was the last one he needed to complete his collection. Of course I declined his request, since my latest acquisition completed two different collections — Slurpee cups and Supergirl items — which meant that I needed it more. The irony was that my opponent was a well-known comic book writer. But even then, I wouldn’t give in. Completism trumps all, even the desire to hobnob with celebrities.
I’m even finding that my Completist addiction is spilling over to other areas of my life. Normally I don’t go out on Wednesday, because I have to see Project Runway at 10PM. But recently, a friend called asking if I’d meet her for a drink because she needed to talk about a problem she was having at work. I told her I could only have a quick one, but when 10 o’clock rolled around, the conversation wasn’t at a spot that could be cut short. So, I missed that night’s episode, and panic set in. Did I dare look at Bravo’s website and get spoilers about who had been “Auf’d” that night and ruin it for myself (for those of you who don’t watch this reality show, the highlight of Project Runway is when the German supermodel hostess Heidi Klum announces which contestant is eliminated, and then says “auf wiedersehen” to them). How could I have my Thursday morning recap with my friends if I had incomplete information? It was a dilemma for me. Luckily, I caught the rerun later that week, completing my Completist viewing experience, and calming my anxiety. But it’s that way with all TV shows that I like. I once burned through all six seasons of Six Feet Under on DVD in the space of a week. I had to bypass Netflix and go straight to my local video store – the US Post Office was too slow to fuel my Completist viewing needs. The video store practically had to install a revolving door to keep up with my churn and burn viewing schedule. But, I’d seen all 63 episodes, and I could sleep a little better that night. And the worst thing is, it’s even like that with shows I don’t like. I never walk out of a movie, no matter how bad it is, because of the incomplete experience of not seeing the end. I’ll stick with the worst TV series just to say I saw all of the episodes.
Is the life of a Completist a sad desperate existence? Well, how can I be lonely when the happy faces of my 40+ Wonder Woman action figures say “Good morning” to me every day from the display cases? How can I say that I have no purpose when there are always piles of comics that need to be put in plastic bags with backing boards and filed in proper chronological order? How can I feel that life has nothing good in store for me, when I know that every trip to a garage sale or flea market may mean that I can get my “fix” with a new McCoy vase or an amateur oil painting portrait of someone I don’t know? How can I not feel like the world is a place of limitless potential, when I know that almost every major metropolitan city has a flea market? And how can I not dare to dream that perhaps someday I’ll find that elusive Wonder Woman 1966 hand puppet in one of them?
No, I don’t have a sad little life. Call it an obsession, call it an addiction, but this monkey on my back keeps me waiting to see what the next day will bring to make my life more…complete.