It's official. Comic Con is better than Christmas.
Christmas has sucked for years. You have to deal with dysfunctional or non-existent family, financial woes and a general lack of magic in your cynical, adult years.
Case in point: my father has given me a tire gauge three consecutive Christmases in a row. By the third year I almost burst into laughter, hoping it was a joke.
It wasn't.
Which is why I'm here to tell you that the magic of childhood excitement and glee that may have once trickled into my heart on Christmas Morning is alive and well at the San Diego Comic Con.
This was my first time going, and even though it's over a week later, I still can't get over how goddamn cool it was. Movies. TV. Comics. Toys. People dressed up (take that Santa, you invisible fucker!) in eccentric costumes.
And best of all, it's a place where people come to let their geek/freak flags fly. And that's beautiful to me, even if I can't bear to look/watch/read/collect the same stuff many of them do, I just think it's a lovely little Geek Utopia.
I could brag about the exclusive Watchmen Footage and T-Shirt, or the Lost Panel, or the collection of indie books I picked up full of fantastic renderings of doomed relationships, young love and unplanned pregnancies. The new Batmans I've added to my mantle collection. The multitude of geek parents bringing along their adorable little kids dressed as superheroes/Jedi's/Indiana Jones. Or my fond reunions with old friends and new acquaintances.
But I can't. It wouldn't make sense. You'll just have to celebrate the glorious holiday yourself next year.
So I'll grit my teeth through December, knowing deep down that come July I will go back undercover into a marvelous fantasy world full of imaginative, enthusiastic make-believers surrounded by 360 degree eye candy in beautiful Downtown San Diego.
And I will be back.
But not in any costumes, of course.
West Coast. Love.
0 comments:
Post a Comment