My first impression of the Comic-Con somewhat resembled a sensory overload. I was literally oohing and ahhing over everything from the life-sized Batman made only out of Legos to the Voldemort statue so real, I expected him to Avada Kedavra my ass. I met and/or saw many semi-famous people like David Arquette and Robert Rodriguez, I went to an exclusive rooftop Star Wars 30th anniversary party, I got plenty of enjoyment out of the hilarious costumes people wore and someone even complimented my Grizzlies hat. This place was my domain, and although it seemed to crush my inner sense of individuality, I couldn’t love it more. Or so I thought.
It turns out there are a number of of bad things…
Overcrowding: The whole place moves slower than blood through John Goodman’s arteries.
Lines: It’s absolutely impossible to get anything cool without being prepared to stand (next to two asians who won’t shut up about the underrepresentation of Yu Yu Hackasho compared to recent years) for an hour and half.
Lack of cool swag: When your coolest swag is a sumo wrestler stress reliever you know you’re getting hosed.
You might think I’m being nitpicky or ungrateful, but you know you’ve seen enough when you see Mario and Luigi kissing (Yes, Luigi was a girl, but they both had mustaches so how is it any better?).
When I was flying home, this old asian man struck up a conversation with me. He held my rapt attention as he told me amazing feats of resourcefulness he performed as a kid. He told me how he made armor out of cardboard and staged battles with other neighborhoods (he showed me the scars). He shared how he made a makeshift harpoon fun out of a tire iron, clothespin and fishing line. I was even informed of how to properly steal a chicken, slice off it’s head on barbed wire, watch it run around like a chicken with–well I think you get the idea, coat it in riverbank mud, roll it in the ashes of a dying fire, bury it for a week, and finally come back and remove the coating (taking care of the feathers) and eat it. The best story, however, involved a jar full of grasshoppers, loose tinder, a match, and a rather barbaric bloodlust ritual/sacrifice. After all these stories with me nodding and saying witty things like “really?” “wow!” and “oh yeah?” I finally asked him what far off land he hailed from.
“Southeast Idaho,” he replied in his broken english, thus teaching me one more lessson against being judgmental and never assuming. He also never asked me to steal a cricket from his hand so that’s two dead stereotypes.
Cheers! (yeah, that’s right you get an exclamation point cause I’m in a good mood)
P.S. I forgot to ask, what did you all think of Book 7?