So you want to know about Saturday at the San Diego Comicon, do ya? Well pull up a bucket, flip it over and have yerself a sit, you goddamned freak that sits on buckets, you.
The day started out like any of mine usually do, with me bolting upright in bed drenched in the remains of my night-terror sweat, screaming and frantically clawing at my flesh to remove whatever was burrowing into my limbs and torso in the sweet sweet escapist realms of my dreams.
At this point the staff generally enter the room after having to smash the door open, as I latch every single lock on the door the night before in dread of hotel gremlins. Upon being grabbed and shaken by the staff, I, still in my dreamstate, believe that my defenses were for nought and that the gremlins are throttling me to break all of my bones to make me more easily chewable, and fight back, usually taking one of the wee ladies down before being thrown against the window, smashing through it, doubling over the balcony and hitting the pavement several floors below.
I then walked to the con, headphones not quite protecting me from such snippets of conversation such as the one between two passing, manly men with large arms, one of them saying to the other, ” Beets, lettuce, cabbage…” which only confused me as much as frightened me. Depending on the mood, when crossing the street to get to the convention center and walking awkwardly amongst several hundreds of human beings, all bumping and jostling into one another, miserably desperate to get to their fun, I listen to either music from Schindler’s List, Lawrence of Arabia, or the ferry scene music from War of the Worlds.
Got inside, and headed straight to the SLG booth, where the dogs had already mauled a few early fans to a bloody mess. Because I am the puppymaster, with a gesture, I bade the mongrels to part to allow me access to the booth.
First signing of the day went well, with most everyone being generally pretty nice. In fact, it might have been the most decent group of people at a Comicon in quite some time, although the disturbing rise in guys asking for hugs is something to be addressed, and makes me wonder about the rumors about a diet high in soy. They all settled for handshakes or a devastating kick to the knees, so there was really no drama from those situations at all. The the dogs dragged them away by their faces.
Wandered around on my first break and actually discovered that the M.C. Frontalot on my Twitter was not an impostor but the actual M.C Frontalot. Who says the internet’s all shams and flams and baby prams? Huh? I don’t know either, kids. He gave me socks from the Dumbrella booth, noting that I was essentially dressed like a hobo, my socks full of holes with little mice living in them. The man’s not just a nerdcore warlock, which isn’t at all an actual thing but it seems right only at this moment, but he’s a saint, folks. A saint. The socks already have holes in them, by the way. I’m a terrible thing.
Back at the booth, someone came up and told me they dug the work I had done on the MSI album. While they were doing this, I was handing Jimmy Urine a copy of the poster I had done, having just run into him walking around the con. Jimmy was there to promote his new line of cup-o-soups, and was packing up to go, realizing this was just the wrong place to be doing that, but not before walking around a bit and grabbing a poster. The guy talking about the album work, upon hearing that the person who had just walked off was the lead singer of the band they so love, SHOT HIMSELF IN THE FACE. YES. IN THE FACE.
Signing 2 began, and it was even more casual than the first, allowing me to actually speak to people, with them saying such things as “Oh, hello there.” and me responding with various retorts, the most common of which was “I do, but only when it’s chubby.” So all in all it was a pretty successful appearance in the heart of hell.
Dinner with the SLG crew was as unpleasant as always, with everyone eating out of a trough and lifting their filthy faces only to howl and growl if any other got close to their “feed zone”.