Wholly True Tales Of Comic-Con 2005
I was stacking cash until that vile human larva ratted me out. And I had plans for that shit, too. I was going to have Smashmouth play at my birthday. On the moon.
We decided to fly home immediately after dismantling the booth with a mallet and saying our farewells to Dumbrella, Dayfree, and a small portion of the Bag of Chips conglomerate. Taking the long view, it was probably the best idea - but by the time I arrived home, there was simply nothing left that I associate with my personality. Five hypersocial days drained a reservoir that will take weeks to fill. I took the time to patch up my WoW and my Battlefield, but the load for something like that is negligible. I can, and apparently do, perform those kinds of operations in my sleep.
There were actually less people by the booth this year, all told, but honestly I welcome it. I had a chance to have several actual conversations this year, a con first. I intend to ride the downward trend the way one might a rollercoaster, until there is only one Penny Arcade enthusiast left - Kim Fletcher, the Ultrafan. We will no doubt talk of cats.
I saw Scott McCloud no less than seven times, and though I expected to see a derringer or some other slightly baroque show weapon emerge from his bookbag no such thing ever happened. I was over at Comic Relief trying to track down a Sinfest collection, and when I asked a person with an exhibitor badge facing into the aisle if they had it, he informed me in no uncertain terms that not only did he not work there, he was super pissed off at me. It was Steve from Athena Voltaire, about whose work I had said something mean in passing three months ago. That’s never really happened to me, had a man straight-up dress me down right to my face, and I will admit that I found the procedure somewhat exhilarating. It took all of five minutes to determine what points we agreed upon and begin focusing on those instead. Still, I think I could have taken him.
That is a joke, Steve. Please do not brood for three months.
That is also a joke.
There are so many physicalities to human interaction that are excised upon translation to ASCII. In person, social anxiety is king and I am desperate to create peace. It is difficult for me to discuss matters of substance because the harrowing, abrasive currents of even ordinary conversations strip me down to platitudes in moments. In the case of Scott McCloud, I pulled a wad of money from my wallet and pressed it into his palm, squeezing his shoulder and crying out “Love me again, love me as your own son.”
that light i never knowed