It's That Comic Con Time Again, And I'm Not In San Diego
I'm homesick. I'm whiny.
I want to be back in LG hitting up my trails and braving the summer heat with a good sweat and shin splint.
I want a never-ending tap that only dispenses frothy, cold, white mocha's from Pete's Coffee, and damn it. I want Falafel Drive In.
I want to be standing in line at the ferry, waiting to be carried from Coronado to the San Diego Convention Center. (Saturdays are 'the' best day for SDCC)
But I'm not. I'm not in Cali at all right now. I'm in Austin.
I'm not relaxing and kicked back on the soft beach in front of the Del, languishing in that perfect San Diego weather and morning chill. The kids aren't flicking through the maps and deciding which panels we might make the run for, and they aren't breaking their fast on peanut butter fudge bought from the candy store a few blocks away. I'm not gorging myself on meatball pizza from Village Pizzeria, following that up with Maui Volcano Beef (so fucking tasty) from Bistro Asia, or swilling down 12 dollar Stella from the Del's bar while listening to the music man strum out Sweet Caroline. It's so fucking awesome, and more so when the bar full of drunks belt out the chorus.
Not there. Not this year.
We aren't there this year, just like last year. Two years running of not attending.
It's everything about it, the volume of people, the sheer energy that emanates from all of the sweaty bodies (costumed and otherwise) like a cell-shaded aura, only it's shared. Droves of like-minded people, enthusiasts and artists alike. It's a shoulder to shoulder crunch of human, say, not unlike Ikea on a Saturday afternoon, x's 11. You really need to get down that aisle, but first, you have to be swept into the wave moving east, and then squirm your way upstream to cut in and over. So then, then you have to do a headcount and kid check... cause all the damn people ambling in a constant lumber that doesn't stop.
I wouldn't say I like crowds. Large gatherings of people make me jittery, they shove me from my comfort zone and lock the door.
But conventions, and particularly those on a larger scale, it's kinda more than that, kinda like quick friends and instant camaraderie. It's an infectious hive-mind synergy. We're here for the art, the collectibles, the t-shirts and the mother-fucking toys. We're here to stare at the cosplayers, to be one of not-as-good cosplayers, here for the panels, the entertainment booths and stations, events set up surrounding the convention center and parades— and to mock those that stand in line for Hall H. (Dude, come on, you know standing in that line sucks... yeah yeah it's worth it, I get it, but fucking hell that heat and standing or sitting in one spot for days. Never-mind, you have my respect, somewhat pity and next year I'll dole out water bottles and paper fans. Huzzah, ye' determined folks, ye' do ye'.)
It's overwhelming for all of a hot minute, and then you're high. You're high on all of that mother-fucking energy, and it doesn't stop until you're loading up the car to head out.
Maybe I'll go subject myself to an Ikea Saturday crowd to make myself feel better. It can be my thundershirt.