Yes, there’s been no content for too Goddamned long. The move was hell (Although I finally have Internet access), and it was immediately followed by a merciful layoff from my magnanimous employer, who clearly was only protecting the best interests of the business and in no way arbitrarily eliminating my livelihood by offering me a generous severance in exchange for my signing a legally-binding agreement not to identify or disparage them on my Web site.
Despite the hardships of the last couple of months, I have had my days brightened by two things: liquor, and Nerd Prom.
For those of you who don’t know, Nerd Prom is a code name for the San Diego International Comic Convention. Every year, 150,000 comic book fans converge on a single location to celebrate comic books, many of them wearing silly costumes as evidenced in the above photo.
I love comics books. I hate people. I love liquor. I hate silly costumes. I love insulting strangers. The Chinese hate Interesting Times.
Clearly, I love them.
Logan Airport, brought to you by the public works system that brought you the Mass Pike Connector Tunnel, is a cruel joke. Terminal E, the international flight terminal, provides the weary traveller with fine restaurants, bars, and legal smoking. Terminal B, the San Diego terminal, provides you with a Pizza Hut Express and evil, sarcastic security personnel who confiscate harmless cigarette lighters with glee, knowing full well that the nicotine rage you feel upon landing will be taken out in another airport.
I did not know that cigarette lighters could not be taken onto an airplane. I learned this when I was dragged out of line by a security douche, who clearly saw the Zippo in my backpack on the x-ray machine. He knew I had one, and he had a picture of it’s location. Yet, after five minutes of futilely tossing my bag, this front-line soldier who keeps us safe on the airlines was unable to find it. He finally had to ask me where my dangerous, nicotine-delivering weapon of mass destruction was being kept. Remember that, the next time you’re feeling safe sitting in an airport.
“Uh… um… do you have a bomb in this bag? We saw a bomb on the x-ray… thingie… but I’ll be goshdarned if I can find the – ”
“Sure. They’re right next the the 72 virgins, dim-witted Satan! Praise Allah!”
Seven hours and ten pieces of nicotine gum later, we landed in San Diego, where I was charged a buck for a pack of matches by a newsstand guy at the airport who has clearly dealt with arriving smokers from Boston before. We soon arrived at the hotel bar, where I ordered three Arrogant Bastard Ales and met my first fellow convention goer: a man with a Serenity Crew t-shirt, who was more than happy to share his experiences in the movie business.
“Of course he was. You handle his food. He’d be nice to you if he found you straddling his wife, because the next load you cranked out could’ve been onto his veggie burger. You could’ve used that power to ass-blast most of the cast, but you held out for a free t-shirt. Good for you. Because with great power comes great responsibility.”
To be fair, he didn’t punch me in the face. Because he works in Hollywood, “below the line,” as he put it, and he had the appropriate level of cynical rage because of it to earn my respect. We eventually got along greatly, and drank together more than once during the Prom.
The first real day of my first real Comic-Con. I learned a lot in a hurry. First, I learned that it’s completely acceptable to drunkenly drool on and jabber at any Boba Fett you see (And if you’ve ever been, you know you’ll see plenty) that they’re dressed as a pole-smoking poseur who’s most notable achievement was being killed by a blind man in the worst of the trilogy. It’s acceptable because that armor’s expensive, and it’ll split if you jab a finger into it, let alone a plastic lightsaber you traded for with a fifteen-year-old for a half-pack of Marlboros.
I also learned that Boba Fett cries if you look at him funny. You can’t see it, but you can hear it. Oh, yes. It sounds like a 28-year-old virgin being told that his life is a lie, and that the uncaring girl with the steely, dead heroin eyes on MyFriendsHotMom.com is the closest he’ll get to a real woman.
I also attended panel discussions by Marvel and DC Comics, and I learned that DC is not only trying harder than Marvel, but they’re having more fun being the underdog. At the DC panel, Dan Didio, the executive editor, not only seemed more excited that so many people were interested in his books, but he was willing to answer questions about continuity, like, “Why does Nightwing seem so competent in his team book, but so incompetent in his own book?” Whereas Joe Quesada, the editor for Marvel, only seemed comfortable answering questions along the lines of “Marvel is awesome, and everything you do is awesome. How does it feel to be so awesome?”
It’s like the difference between a long-term relationship with your high-school girlfriend and a long-term relationship with Heidi Fleiss. Yeah, you bust a nut either way, but what’re you gonna spend your money on? A girl who spits in her hand, grimaces and does her duty because she knows you’re gonna give her a ring? Or a girl who read your blog post and shows up with a bag of ice and a tube of Astroglide because she already knows and loves your credit card number? If you can’t decide, ask Charlie Sheen. He’s famous, and you’re as broke and stupid as I am.
All right. More hopefully tomorrow, when the rest of the freak pictures are developed…