This is the oldest comic book I own. I got it using some “back-issue-bucks,” so it didn’t cost me anything … unless you count all the money that was spent obtaining the back issue bucks (but let’s not, OK?).
It’s Batman #170 from March 1965. That’s 47 years ago for us non-math majors.
I think that’s kind of cool.
Here’s the plot summary:
Criminal Roy Reynolds has devised heists that use various gimmicks in order to stall Batman and Robin long enough for the his thugs to get away. After a series of robberies which are pulled off with the aid of the gimmicks, Reynolds tries his most ambitious yet. Gimmicking the Bat-Signal to turn the emblems of Batman and Robin‘s costumes to expand and change into straight jackets so that they might be easier targets.
Batman and Robin however manage to stop Reynold’s goons who rat out their boss when they are arrested.
I have no idea what this comic is “worth,” after all, it’s not in great condition (to be honest, I would hesitate to grade it). But that’s not really the point, is it?
I had a conversation with a friend the other day. This friend was kind of wondering why I collect comic books, trading cards and other kitsch.
“You mean, you want to know: what’s the end game in all this,” I asked.
The friend nodded.
I had no answer then, but as I’ve pondered that conversation, my response is this: Why does their have to be an end game? Shouldn’t collecting stuff we think is neat be an end to itself, and not a means to an end?
Of course, truth be known, if you offered me, say $50 for the issue, I’d let it go in a heartbeat.