Nerve.com presents its Comics Issue with comics by Paul Pope, Chynna Clugston, JIm Mahfood and others, as well as an essay on just what Sandman means to goth girls of all ages.
I always made sure to work Sundays, too, from noon to six, because that was the only time the workaholic manager took off. Sundays were fun. We turned off the classic rock. We fanned ourselves with impunity. We talked about belt buckles and boyfriends and the worst regular customers, like the guy who would yell at you if you handed him back pennies in his change. “I DON’T TAKE PENNIES,” we yelled at each other.
And we read. A lot. Sunday was like Stan’s worst nightmare, all of us leaning against displays, giggling, fans swooshing, greasy, mayonnaise-y fingerprints all over the merchandise. It was on such a Sunday that I found Sandman. It immediately replaced Hal Hartley films and the semi-random New Jersey band Too Much Joy (the album Cereal Killers was on repeat for the entire summer) as the primary influence on Asia and I.