alt dot nerd dot obsessive

Hip to my general attraction to nerds, my friends ushered me into the odd, colorful, and occasionally acne-scarred world of comics conventions this weekend by way of the New York Comic-Con, a trade and industry show for publishers, artists, toy makers and sullen goth teens.

We arrived at the Javits center around 1pm on Sunday and managed to get hooked up with passes from friends who had a booth inside, which meant skipping the $25 door fee AND the really long line of disgruntled fan-boys who stood shivering in the brutal cold.

With a little more finagling we managed to get onto the convention floor, at which point my brain began to seize. It took a few minutes of squinting against the rows of neon manga, poseable action figures and rollicking digital displays to get rid of my vertigo, but after a few trips around the floor, I think we managed to see everything. It was a pretty spectacular display with flashy colors and yards of painted banners covered in muscular superheros and giant-eyed child-women, just for starters.

All in all, the writers and artists were really nice and chatty, while the fans and comic book traders tended, tragically but predictably, towards Comic Book Guy. At the opposite end of the spectrum were the models. And by models I mean porn stars. The heroines wore teeny little costumes and were at the con to sign the erotic artwork for which they posed, usually as a sideline to their acting careers. Hey, everyone's gotta go legit sometime, even if it means being eye-licked by a bunch of sweaty men who live in their mothers' basements. The cooch can't last forever.

The best part was meeting new, emerging artists, like Steve Uy and seeing Christian Montalvo's work for the first time. Matt and Jon Roscetti were selling their new issue of Reflux, a comic anthology, which features a collaborative piece by Will Grant and Dave Christian; West High enthusiasts take note.

End result: I have enough new comix to last me a few weeks and perhaps catapult me into hitherto unexplored realms of geekdom. New interests are healthy, and a good way to meet people! Now if you'll excuse me, I must defend my BU deck with a harbinger, then finish off my sengir vampire opponent with a dark banishing.

Good day to you.

Shit Sandwich Picnic

I wake up this morning, hungover and grumpy, on a girlfriend’s couch. It's raining outside, and I have no umbrella, which means I have to go through the to-buy-or-not-to-buy debate, which ends, predictably, with me $6 poorer and my new umbrella turned inside-out and busted five minutes later. The functionally retarded people who work at Dunkin’ Donuts on East 42nd street can’t figure out how to put my coffee and hangover sandwich in the same bag, nor do they have a plastic bag. Again, predictably, the (sodden) bag with coffee rips. So there I am, sleepy and wet, clutching my iced coffee in one hand, and my sandwich and broken, bat-winged umbrella in the other, two bags heavy with manuscripts flung like Marley’s chains around my shoulders. If Marley’s chains had been made of romance novels.

I finally arrive at work, and who should I run into in the lobby, in my state of great dishevelment, with last night’s whiskey on my breath, but the cute boy who works on the floor below me, the one who reminds me of Kumar. We say nice, polite things to each other and he courteously asks me if I’m doing anything special for the weekend. I refrain from saying “Getting very drunk. Again.” and stick with the safe-if-lame “Oh, just relaxing. Probably sleeping a lot.” To which Kumar replies, “Yeah, me too. They been working me like a two dollar ho.” This makes me laugh, and for that I am grateful. It may even qualify as the high point of my month.

You see, dear friends, I have just come through the shittiest four weeks of personal Screwsan history. Let me not get into details except to say that being dumped on Valentines Day by my boyfriend of three years was not nearly the worst of it. Let your hearts well with pity, and forgive me for being such a lazy-ass blogger.

Also note: January 15 – February 15, 2006 is now stricken from the calendar. And February 14, specifically, will never be spoken of again. From now on, we will know it as The Day That Shall Not Be Named.

Yes, I think this it’s time to leave this shit sandwich picnic to the ants, pack up my blanket and roll the fuck out of here. March, I can’t wait to see you. Boston Birthday Boys: I’ll be up soon.

Love,
Screwsan

p.s.—Before the world took a short trip to hell, I promised to tell you the story of how I saved the life of one of my favorite punkers. Here it is: On the way to a Keys to the Streets of Fear show in Greater Bumblefuck, Brooklyn, a girl approaches me and asks me to walk with her because she's being followed by a big white van. Sure enough, there, a block away, idles a big white van lit only by parking lights. She takes my arm and we swoop around the corner, walking quickly in the direction of the bar to which (as it turns out) we're both headed. On the way we talk, trying to distract ourselves from our impending rape and dismemberment. Turns out she’s Molly from Bratmobile, my first and favorite punk rock band when I was a wee teen. Bratmobile was a lesbo power trio from Olympia that I think pre-dates Sleater-Kinney. Their cover of Cherry Bomb is totally fucking boss. Molly and I made it to the bar alive. Thanks Molly.