Of course, this behavior isn't typical of everyone, but the aisles can and will be clogged. All it takes is, like, 1 out of every 20 attendees to idle to cause a traffic jam of 100. A few people pause to photograph a group of steampunk A-Team cosplayers -- "Look, Mr. T's mohawk is a gear!" -- and, boom, you're spending an interminable two minutes homesteading in the armpit of some fellow dressed as the Crow who last took a bath a week ago in a Saladworks dumpster.
"My body is brimming with secret, gothic croutons."
But at least there's an ebb and flow to these crowds -- the same can't be said of the panel queues. The most popular presentations -- like those in the 6,000-person Hall H, which this year will furnish first looks at the Thor, Amazing Spider-Man, and Captain America sequels, among many things -- attract lines hours (and occasionally a mile) long. Even panels on the smaller stages, which tend to host more niche offerings like Adventure Time and The Venture Bros., can see burly waits.
And Comic-Con doesn't clear rooms between panels. Convention organizers gradually learned to move any Twilight panels to the morning of the convention's first day to discourage the phalanx of seat-hoarding tweens boasting puffy-painted sweaters of Eddie Murphy in Vampire in Brooklyn. (That was the prequel to Twilight, no? I never read the books.) Tempers unsurprisingly flare, so much so that, back in 2010, a seating dispute prompted one Hall H attendee wearing a Harry Potter shirt to try to jam a pen into another guy's eye. (Hogwarts was an ophthalmology school, right? I skipped a page every time Ron said something.)
"C'mon, officer, I was just re-enacting the scene where Voldemort skull-fucks Uncle Dursley with a wand."
"You know, the scene from my Xanga."