Last week, I was sent to San Diego Comic-Con as, I assumed, a reward for the stellar work I probably do around here but was, I realize in retrospect, more than likely a punishment for all the shitty work I certainly do around here. Comic-Con is all nerds, geeks, movies and comics--in short, it should be my Promised Land but, in actuality, it's like a very specific kind of Hell designed by a devil who digs Twilight, hates deodorant and absolutely loves shrieking crowds of lunatics. Go to Comic-Con next year, and see if your observations at all line up with mine. Holy Shit There Are So Many of You
Over 120,000 sweaty, excitable people tried cramming into this goddamned place and there's just no way to manage a crowd of that size. A lot of the general discomfort surrounding the Convention floor can be traced back to the numbers; you can't cool down, because of all the mouth-breathing spectators, you can't stretch without punching a Stormtrooper and you can't get a boner for fear of getting it tangled up with some three-foot tall elf mage with wandering hands (true story). The floor is too crowded to move comfortably, and if some asshole somewhere stops to gawk at something or pose for pictures (and they will), you can just forget about moving. If you get sick of swampassing your way through the floor, you're alternatives are A) waiting four hours in line for a panel or B) fucking yourself. The line for one panel was so long. (
And I got sick, because that's what happens when you cram a planet's worth of unwashed, socially retarded nerds together and force them to breathe each other's air. It's bullshit. I had to call out of work Monday just because they don't teach hygiene in fucking dragon camp. The Women In real life, you can just approach a chick and say, "Hey, I want to buy you dinner. I have a car," and everything always works out fine.1 But at Comic-Con, it's different; no one's impressed by the usual tricks. It's all about how much Life Mana you have, or if your Spirit Animal has the same flavor of palsy as her Spirit Animal and, frankly, it's difficult to keep track of all the weird fetishes that are supposed to be attributed to everyone's respective characters.
-"Two cruisers against a star destroyer? More like two boobs against... Against some other boobs."
"Romulan? More like Ramulan, right? Because I want to ram you. And I'm not sure where the 'lan' part fits in. I guess 'lan' could- OH! No, wait, OK, I got it, here it goes: Romulan? More like Ramuhard, because I want to ra- What's that? You're a Klingon? Oh... Oh OK, then, no, carry on, I've got nothing for Klingon, I won't take up any more of your time, you've shown remarkable patience already."
-"Yeah, I'm gonna fuck you... Amelia Earhart. Yes."
No One's Buying Comics
Some folks might be surprised that Comic-Con recently added a section about comic books. Those folks would be so surprised, they may even completely ignore the artists. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of booths dedicated to both mainstream and independent comics, they're just not exactly swamped with customers, and
Nerd on Nerd Nerd-Violence If you caught yourself inching along the convention floors, scratching your chin and thinking, "Hey, there's something strange about that Pirate Cyborg," you'd be absolutely right. That Piborg, like a lot of other convention-goers, was most likely marching around carrying one of these hastily thrown together signs:
Now, it's no secret that the geek is an extremely territorial beast, and also lightning quick to point out when something has been exploited or tarnished or tainted, if it ever even tip toes with the idea of reaching the mainstream. ("Oh no, the rest of the public is now aware of the comic book/TV show/artist that I like-
I didn't get into the Futurama panel, is what I'm saying. The bottom line is that those "Twilight Ruined Comic-Con" signs were all over the place by Saturday, and I unfortunately didn't pack my "Who Gives a Shit" t-shirt. Comic-Con was supposed to be about fans coming together, wizards and elfs all hanging out or whatever, and more golden-bikini-wearing Slave Leia's than you will ever conceivably see outside of my dreams, and instead it's turned into a battleground between different nerd sects.
Fuck this Comic-Con. 1[Full disclosure: This always works out fine for me because I generally only go after people who are impressed by cars. Ninth graders, mostly. Skanks, exclusively.]
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.