While riding the San Diego trolley recently, I overheard the annoyed tone of a fellow passenger.
"I was serving food to these guys the other day, and then out of nowhere they start throwing it at each other. Lobster tails and crab legs and stuff. They had to be over 20. And they were dressed up like Trekkies."
What might cause this reporter to wake up at 4 a.m., drive six hours across the desert and spend four days among the obscure? Why, the promise of Snoop Dogg, real live hobbits and a few airborne asps, of course.
That's right my friends: I took my first-ever trip to Comic-Con.
Held July 20-23 at the San Diego Convention Center, our fishy-smelling neighbor to the west annually plays host to Comic-Con International, the largest comic related convention in the world.
Inside you can find anything from anime to swords; Lego statues of Batman to actual people dressed as SpongeBob SquarePants.
Invaded by tens of thousands, this was my first time witnessing something so life changing: massive hordes of people with too much time on their collective hands. Or claws, wings - even oversized novelty gloves.
Perhaps you've gone shopping the day after Thanksgiving. If so, imagine that you restricted yourself specifically to the video game department, which happens to exceed the entirety of our fair Sun Devil Stadium. This is a slight indication of what you can expect to see at Comic-Con, although expect added complications from the constant barrage of middle aged wookies, spandex-clad Supermen and even a few Jays and/or Silent Bobs holding Sailor Moon collectibles. In fact, the hectic feel of Comic-Con can often remind you of being at ASU - provided that the campus is made up of thousands of indoor kids, and bleached is not the color of most hairstyles but rather most skin tones.
In its constant state of action, Comic-Con also hosts several informational panels made up of industry professionals and occasionally - to the delight of my comic nescience - well-known celebrity guests.
While panels range from graphic novel character improvement to the GLBTQ presence within the industry, you can also choose to take my route in avoiding everything of substance and heading straight for the big names. In doing this, I managed to see Ray Bradbury signing autographs, hear Quentin Tarantino talking about himself and listen to Samuel L. Jackson utterly disparaging his upcoming feature "Snakes on a Plane." I was even politely solicited by the aging Man Show Boy for $20. But to my complete disappointment, I was not able to have The Doggfather sign my emptied Old English bottle as he was "stuck in traffic."
Despite being a first-timer, I quickly discovered that I was not alone in my Comic-Con naivete. I met Jesse Tuman, a 13-year-old La Jolla resident who told me that he didn't really know what to expect, but "was going for the experience."
Accompanied by 12-year-old best friend Steven Poole, a third year veteran of the Con, Poole told me that he was "most excited about seeing girls."
Tuman agreed, and after immediately returning to the unprovoked punching of each other - as best friends often do - I sincerely hoped they liked skim milk.
While it's impossible to get everything you want to see, do and endlessly mock into just one trip to Comic-Con, the convention does teach a few lessons.
First off, no matter how early you get to your most-anticipated event, you will always find a line already outside the door. This is usually because some kid in a Super Fighting Robots shirt started that line four years ago and hasn't washed that shirt since.
Secondly, if you're attending the convention with comic-oriented friends that you previously thought you knew well, you'll quickly discover that in a comic-specific situation, they tend to morph into completely different beings. Suddenly, the cool people you know who would drive hours to see obscure indie guitar players become the people who almost cry when they find out they missed an opportunity to meet two of the illustrators of Pokemon: Season 9.
Finally, it's safe to say that Comic-Con attendance results in a huge loss of common sense. Asking to take a picture with She-Ra is no big deal. Seeing life-sized World of Warcraft statues is ubiquitous. And sharing one un-air-conditioned hotel room with six other people just so you can have more money for Miller High Life actually seems like a good idea.
Well, I suppose you don't lose all common sense. But the most ridiculous reaction I had as a result of this experience: not being able to wait until I can go back for Comic-Con 2007.
Reach the reporter at heather.hull@asu.edu.
