A coworker and I were sent to the New York Comic Convention to represent Prima. Me and comic cons (sorry, “Comic cons and I”) go back a long way. I used to pay $1.50 every month at the Ambassador Hotel (final living place of Bobby Kennedy) to spend money on X-Factor, Alpha Flight, Groo, and other four color miscreants. I moved up the ladder, attending WonderCon in Oakland religiously and the mecca, San Diego Comic Con, for six straight years hustling a possible comic script (never read).
Now I get to sit on the other side of the ramparts, give something away, and try to reassure the timid that not every table is an obstacle or a money trap. I’m polite to the socially stunted in a way I wouldn’t have been able to conceive when I worked at a comic book store and took great delight in tormenting the same. Here and now I ask questions of passersby about their costumes, t-shirts, hats, and hair. I ask them to pose for pictures, I cajole them to explain cryptic fictitious symbols on their clothes, I try to give them the opening to explain exactly why they are cool.
Which, by my own experience, is exactly what the costumes, logoed t-shirts, and patches are attempting to convey. I know they want me to recognize the Tardis printed on their jacket, the Mandalorian armor, the web-comic t-shirt, to give them the Prisoner salute. And I want to show them I’m cool by that same recognition. Sure, I’m telling them, I’m here behind a corporate desk, but I get you.
This mutual admiration convention went on for three days and I enjoyed the hell out of it.
High five. Live long and prosper. Be seeing you.