Another Universe
(An essay I wrote for a nonfiction course)
There was a hideous creature hobbling my way. I only saw it out of the corner of my eye, but I could tell it was coming in my direction. Upon closer inspection, it was a short woman (five feet at the most), chubby to the point of almost round, and dressed in a black skin tight uniform. A thick layer of prosthetic make up was smeared over the top of her face. I had never watched Star Trek in my life, but I recognized her costume as an attempt at a Klingon. With the prosthetic forehead peeling off her sweaty skin and the stringy black wig ratted and tangled into knots, she looked more like a guest on the Maury Povich show than an ambassador from a fierce but noble alien race. Her black glove was stained silver from gripping her spray painted space pistol in the summer heat. I began to follow her, certain she would lead me to my destination.
As I approached the convention center, I became uneasy about walking in. I knew nothing of stolen plans or missing droids, but the crowd of Stormtroopers gathered around the entrance made me nervous. There was easily thirty of them swarmed around the doors. Surveying the crowd of oddly shaped Imperial troops, I assumed the Empire had relaxed its standards to bolster its troop numbers. They did have a Death Star to fill after all. After making it past forty feet of white plastic suits and the pungent aroma of excessive Old Spice used to keep them fresh, I finally made it into the hall.
That was the first time I ever attended a Comic Con. It has since become an annual pilgrimage. The convention began in San Diego in 1970 as a small gathering of three hundred comic book enthusiasts. In the nearly forty years since its birth the operation has exploded, becoming the largest convention of it’s kind. Crowds of over 120,000 descend upon downtown San Diego for five days of unadulterated pop culture indulgences. It has become a major stop for any studio with a movie they want to sell to the coveted young male demographic, leading to countless celebrities passing through the halls. But at its heart, Comic Con still belongs to the nerds.
The convention floor was a sight to behold. Comic books, toys, statues, autographs, DVDs, props and everything else a con attendee could possibly want filled booths to the brim. The crowds worked their way through the aisles like a colorful and un-athletic ant farm. That’s the most noticeable element of Comic Con: the people. A more eclectic and enthusiastic group of outcasts there may not be. Adding to the spectacle, many decide to dress like their favorite fictional characters, making the hall a living wax museum of pop culture, but one unable to afford the best of sculptors. The problem with dressing up as most comic characters is that on the page the costumes look great, but in the real world it’s a different story. Especially when slapped on the body of the average Comic Con attendee.
In the lobby a man dressed completely in cardboard boxes painted to look like a transformer was being led to the bathroom by another dressed entirely in black and carrying a sword; presumably his seeing eye ninja. The Transformer got stuck on his way in, unable to force his square-like bulk through the narrow passage. Finally he turned and passed through sideways, moving on to the even more insurmountable task ahead of him in the rest room.
At first the experience of walking the aisles was overwhelming. Huge throngs of people flow endlessly, threatening to sweep you away if you do not time your movements correctly. At one point I came across a huge group of people gathered around a booth. When I asked someone what they were waiting for, he responded “I don’t know, but it’s gotta be good.” I had my mind set on making it to one booth in particular, so I decided not to stay and see. Using the provided guide and the direction of a helpful Green Lantern, the way to my chosen aisle was arrived upon. I thought it polite to tell the middle aged man in the emerald spandex that it was the best Green Lantern costume there by far. The blonde guy’s in the lobby was actually much better.
I began to make my way to booth 1214. Like a salmon swimming upstream, I moved against the river of people flowing the opposite way. Once there I joined the already formed line. If you want to do anything at Comic Con besides walk around, you will find yourself in a multitude of lines. The large man in front of me had a long ponytail and smelled of mildew and Fritos. His backpack was covered in a variety of pins emblazoned with “Han shot first!”, “Beam me up Scotty!” and other sci-fi catchphrases. At least it was something to read in line. Finally he made it to the front and it was his time to meet Stan Lee, the creator of Spider-Man, the X-Men, the Hulk and dozens of other instantly recognizable comic book characters. Stan formed Marvel Comics in his own vision, creating an entire comic book universe that is still the financial juggernaut of the industry. Needless to say he is a living legend. My eyes rolled as the pony tailed man stuttered and gushed to Stan, telling him that he was a god and asking him specific questions about things the poor eighty two year old man would never remember. He stepped away and it was my turn to approach the cheerful old man. With tinted prescription glasses and a trademark white mustache, the spry senior citizen acted like the true recipient of a “World’s Greatest Grandpa” mug on a sugar rush. He eagerly shook my trembling hand, never letting his genuine smile drop. All I could manage was, “Wow, it’s, uh, amazing to meet you. Thanks for all the, uh, entertainment you’ve given me. Could you, uh, sign this, um, comic?” I could feel the eyes rolling behind me.
There was a slow realization of how bizarre and interesting walking around Comic Con truly was. You could take a picture with four guys dressed up as authentic Ghostbusters just for the hell of it. Then, ten feet later, find yourself face to face with Ernie Hudson from Ghostbusters as he signed autographs. This was thanks to “Autograph Alley,” the section of the convention floor dedicated to B, C and D list celebrities sitting behind tables for hours on end, trying to sell glossy photos and even charging for taking pictures with someone else’s camera. It’s resonable that they try to pull in cash any way they can, because the sad row of tables might as well be called “The Valley of Stalled Careers.” Chewbacca, the original Lois Lane, some guy who had a green face on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and many other thespians you barely remember fill the seats and resentfully sell a nostalgia act in order to make a living. It’s hard to imagine that any of them, while diligently working through drama courses, imagined that their careers would culminate in making change for a twenty. Ernie Hudson was the only one that seemed to love it. He happily recorded “Who you gonna call? Ghostbusters!” as a fan’s outgoing cell phone message.
While making my way past a booth entirely dedicated to Pac Man items, I was distracted from the bright yellow piles by a voice managing to lift itself over the incessant murmur of thousands. “Everything fifty percent off! Come and get it people.” I started to follow the voice, both out of intrigue and frugality. A declaration of this nature in these halls was like a Siren’s call. “I know I’m crazy! Come and rob me blind, it’s all half off!” The source of the booming ad campaign came from three aisles over in the form of a small, boisterous black woman. She sneezed, wiped her hand on her loose fitting Captain America tee shirt and then cupped her hands around her mouth once again. “Get your butts over here before my husband gets back! Fifty percent off!” A stoic faced man walked towards her, very seriously examining the contents of the booth. “Man, it don’t hurt to smile. This is a toy show, not a funeral. Have a little fun!”
Inside the booth I searched through a box of discounted books, looking for nothing in particular. After flipping through the contents I patiently waited for the small man in the Zorro costume next to me to finish with his box. After pausing a few times to consider certain covers, he finally offered the customary “Switch?” As we continued to systematically work our way through boxes side by side we compared items and asked one another to keep an eye out for certain titles buried in the boxes. There was something familiar about the exposed bottom half of Zorro’s face and the quiet, almost timid voice that it emitted. Grinning at his stack of books, Zorro told me to have a good time and went to pay the small woman, still loudly wooing potential customers. Weeks later, thanks to an Entertainment Weekly article, I realized that the man behind the Zorro mask was Spider-Man director Sam Raimi. Only at Comic Con.
The oddest borough in the Comic Con cityscape was shoved into the farthest corner. There adult film and magazine stars greeted fans and attempted to sell them DVDs and picture sets glorifying their naked visages. Wearing outfits that barely covered their most private of places and lifted their breasts to their chins, the adult actresses lined the aisle, calling for the men passing by to stop and chat. They had binders filled with photographs of themselves in a cornucopia of settings and outfits (which always managed to come off) for the crowd to peruse through. Each eight by ten came laminated, so any fluids that managed to find their way onto it, one way or another, could be cleaned up easily. It was not a dignified move on their part, but one the buyers surely appreciated anyway.
Most of the attendees avoided the aisle or moved through quickly, like children rushing through the bad part of town: curious enough to venture there, but eager to return to the right side of the tracks. Much akin to the adult comic section in the back of many comic stores, to many the porn aisle at any given con is seen as a shameful and embarrassing addition to what is otherwise a celebration of a beloved art form. However, there is also a substantial amount of individuals who hover in the section for great lengths of time, speaking with their favorite stars and buying a variety of laminated photos. No matter what the sophisticates who insist on calling all comics “graphic novels” or “serial art” may say, a ven diagram of interests featuring comics and porn would undeniably have a distinct overlap.
Back in the PG rated section of the hall I passed through the tables of artists but found it to be anything but family friendly. The area is reserved for comic book artists to draw whatever fans desire. As long as they also desired to give them money. I heard one artist complaining to another about this aspect of their work. How humiliating it was to whore himself out in such a way and comparing a sketch of Robin to turning tricks in an alley for crack money. Like the street-worn prostitute, he was eager to abandon his post. If only the money was not so good.
Back in the lobby I witnessed a group of Stormtroopers on break, revealing to the world what they looked like under the masks. One was a thin middle aged man with a comb over and a scraggily little goatee. Another could have easily been the brother of American Idol reject and media sensation William Hung. I chuckled as I made my way into the bathroom. Suddenly the imposing troops were just like everyone else there. Instead of standing at attention they were slouched and awkwardly apologized if someone bumped into them. While washing my hands the guy dressed as Indiana Jones at the sink next to me asked if I had seen the DC Comics booth. “Sure I did, it’s fantastic.” As we discussed it at great length I looked up into the mirror. Water splashed from the sink onto my Spider-Man tee-shirt and the plastic attendee badge dangling from my neck. The straps of my backpack were tugging at my shirt, weighed down by all the items, free and bought, I had acquired throughout the day. I watched my eyes widen as the revelation washed over me. These people I’ve been laughing at all day. I’m one of them.
I held the door for Indiana Jones and we headed back out into the fray together. Now that it has become such a commercial enterprise, the prospect of running into Robert Downey Jr. or Jessica Alba at the show can detract from what make it such a beautiful event. People with common interests, interests that they have been told their whole lives are weird or stupid, can come together in their natural element. More than that, someone in multi colored spandex talking about the state of the current Batman comic can feel absolutely normal. I breathed in the aroma of obscenely priced garlic fries and old comics and headed across the hall to say hi to Chewbacca.
