If I said Gameboy enjoys Japanese manga (comic books), that would be putting it too lightly. If I said he was obsessed, that sounds unhealthy. If I said he reads the same ones over and over, that sounds bad, too, perhaps. He explained it like this, though: "When I'm getting tired with one series, I go back to No. 1 of another series and rediscover it."
That sounds pretty coherent. He gets pretty academic about manga, too, talking to me about the plot and character development of stories I've never read. (I've tried, but all I seem to observe are cliches and exaggerated emotions. I'm not the target audience of this stuff.) He also got into an argument with a boy in his Dungeons & Dragons group (where else?) about how to pronounce "manga." Gameboy was saying the first "a" as in "awesome"; the other boy was saying the first "a" as in "anger." They decided to settle the dispute with a roll of the dice, and Gameboy lost. Drove. Him. Crazy.
My point today, however, and I'm being a real Mom here, is that I'd like more of these manga to find their homes on Gameboy's bookshelf. Instead, they're on my end table (above).
On the ledge behind the couch.
On the other side of the ledge behind the couch. (I have not been collecting these photos, by the way; they were taken during a one-minute walk about the house.)
Under the cat.
On the bench by the front door. (This bench is supposed to be used to sit on when you put on your shoes. Good luck with that.)
Piled on his headboard, which is close, oh, so close to the bookshelf where they belong.
I published this and realized it was incomplete without a photo of the back seat of my minivan. I walked out there with all confidence the seat would be covered with manga, and sure enough, there they were.