My name is Greg Chick and I love comic books.

My walls are plastered with superhero posters and I’ve got several action figures lining my shelves. I have those long cardboard boxes filled with comics, the autographed ones are enshrined in picture frames around my room, and I’m more apt to analyze “The Dark Knight Returns” than the “Seven Vectors of College Student Development” theory. I’d quote “Batman Begins” in a paper well before I’d head over to Jerome to look up something more intellectual.

For those of you ladies that haven’t already wandered off this article, I like long walks on the beach and listening to Celine Dion (call me).

With the introduction over, my point of frustration this week is the influx of new comic fans that my beloved literature has attracted. I’m not opposed to new readership of comics.

Quite the contrary. I’d love to have more people to debate the ethics of Ozymandias’ apocalyptic plan to save the Earth or the political implications of superhero registration. What concerns me is the motivation and sincerity of these new fans to the genre. The average age of a comic book reader is roughly 33.

How does one get into comics? Most of us were handed comics when we were young. Our imagination was captured by the epic stories of good versus evil, the larger than life characters and the nonstop action. We all just stuck with it.

While others grew up watching the Saturday morning cartoons, I ran to the nearest comic shop.

Then there are those that saw the movies. If you haven’t unglued your head from Facebook in the past 10 years, comic book movies are a booming business in Hollywood. This makes no one happier than me.

Is their any doubt that I was there at midnight for the premier of “Spider-Man” and “Batman Begins”? That I don’t have the special-unrated-platinum edition-director’s cut-box set version of each of these movies? Don’t even get me started on the pain I’m experiencing now and for the next 314 days until “The Dark Knight” comes out.

Comic book movies have flourished thanks to adaptations of “Blade,” “X-Men,” “Spider-Man,” and “Hellboy.” The quality has varied as much as my daily study routine, from the forgettable (Ben Affleck in tight red leather), to the painful (Jessica Alba as Sue Storm?), the disappointing (“Spider-Man: 3” anyone?) the faithful (“300”), fun (Marv and his saw) and the surprisingly pleasant (Keanu Reeves in an actually good, serious role?).

But here’s my shtick. I’m sure you’ve all seen one of these movies. Maybe you liked them, maybe you didn’t. Perhaps you liked one of them a lot. You may even consider yourself a fan.

Good for you, here’s a cookie.

But please, please recognize who you are. You are not a fan of Spider-Man, or Batman, or Superman, or whoever. You’re a fan of a particular version of the character.

If you think the Green Goblin looks like a Power Ranger, Superman has a bastard son, the Joker killed the Waynes, or the X-Men wear all black leather, just stop. Don’t come up to me and try to be my bud. I’m not your homey and we aren’t spiritual brothers in comics. Stop, turn around, and hit the books.

Know the names Miller, Loeb, Dini, Bendis, Moore and Claremont better than you think you know the hot girls in your dorm. Pick up some current issues; know Infinite Crisis, Civil War and Sinestro Corps better than your girlfriend’s Facebook profile. Only then can I recognize you as a true fan.