we almost kinda coulda had san diego

This past weekend was San Diego Comic-Con, aka the Most Wonderful Time of the Year. It's the only time people who look like me get to mingle with one another, share our nerddom and also mingle with those who are much more physically attractive than ourselves, and the only time those people have to acknowledge us.

I didn't get to go to Comic-Con this year, though I did send a writer. I really wanted to go. I asked my boss. Last year, when they didn't send me, they said that they'd made a mistake and that I would definitely go this year. Instead, I came into the office and helped an intern move, and as a result, I missed my Rendezvous with Alba.

I can already see how it would've went. I would've been perusing long boxes for Zatanna memorabilia and copies of "Kraven's Last Hunt," the greatest Spider-man story ever told (I already have it of course in single issue form, but they're in New York, and it would be nice to have some extra copies--just in case). Maybe she would be looking for issues of Sin City to bone up on her Nancy Callahan character for the sequel, or perhaps her involvement in the comic book movie world would have sparked her interest in sequential art and she would be looking to expand her comic book horizons.

Our quiet searches would've caused us to accidentally bump into one another. "Oh! I'm sorry!" she would've said. I would've gotten sweaty in response. In my haste to shield myself from her overpowering sexy lasers (its' been a long weekend), I would've stammered something illegible and tried to move away, but she'd have labeled me a savvy comics vet because of my Sandman hat, pants and T-shirt and would've asked, "Are these any good?" She would've been holding a couple copies of Love and Rockets and I would've heard cello music.

From there, we'd grab a pick bite to eat so she could "pick my brain about comics." I'd suggest Al Aqua 2 just a few blocks away. I'd tell her that I'd eaten there the last time I was at Comic-Con in 2005, and I thought it was great. We'd head over there in her Prius. I'd order some sort of fish thing. ...I haven't really thought about what she'd get. Then she'd put it on her Amex card and I'd give a big sigh of relief, because that shit was fucking expensive. On the way back, the conversation would turn to other things: work, stress, Icanhascheezburger, you know, the important things. She'd tell me she just became single and was hoping to get her mind off things. I would've silently cursed the false claims of my "all day dry" antiperspirant.

Of course, upon our return to the convention center, reality--or as reality as the Comic-Con would get--would soon set in. Her pocket PC would've been raging with messages and she'd say something like, "I almost forgot about that press junket," or, "I can't believe I have to take that photo op with Dain Cook. He's such a tool," or, "I have to meet up with my manager so we can catch our plane out in a few hours." Or something like that. We'd wave and say it was nice to meet you, and I'd become just another balding 30-something fat-ish man in the Comic-Con crowd. Back where I belong, with my brethren. If I'd gone to San Diego.

odaijini

I've officially become a patron of the arts. The other day, I got a print by Audrey Kawasaki, who's one of my favorite artists right now. It's not like it's a very long list; I'm not very astute when it comes to following artsy stuff. Still, I'm extremely excited. When I ordered the print, I wasn't sure that I got through in time. Four weeks later, when I was pretty much sure that I hadn't gotten it, a well wrapped package appeared at my office and I hopped from desk to desk showing it off. It's not very big--just a 10" x 8" print--and it only cost me $55 all together with shipping, but I've never really owned a piece of art before. The print is on archival paper and is number 9 of 200, which makes the comic collector nerd in me get a stiffy (OMG!!! First TEN?!!11). Right now, she's off being framed (on the company's account) and I'm already scoping the walls of my little studio for the perfect spot. I may have to sell the car to get more of this stuff.

more flies with honey, i guess...

Earlier in the month, I decided, since I would no longer have cable, to subscribe to just about any YouTube channel that interested me in hopes that I would be getting the Internets back soon. One day at work, I was surfing the 'Tube for meatier stuff, newsy stuff, since I wouldn't any longer have access to The Daily Show. One of the featured videos that day was a beautiful, intelligent woman with a clipped accent and deep, dark eyes who implored viewers to leave comments and video responses for something. It didn't really matter what. I clicked subscribe. Turns out it was Ghida Fahkry and she's a news presenter for Al Jazeera English. I can listen to her say the world "English" all day. Also turns out that the channel has some really interesting stuff about places I'll probably never go to and people I don't really understand. Unfortunately, they haven't posted any more of Ghida other than the above thank you. Instead, there are actual news items that bum me out like this:

off the grid

I'm not dead. I've moved somewhat off the grid, meaning that I am now living in a studio apartment without cable or the Internets. I have rabbit ears and comic books and Battlestar Galactica on DVD. It's really fucking good, and that's got almost nothing to do with this or this. But they both help.

Yesterday I was at a Jack in the Box, here in downtown just half a block from my office. I stopped there to grab a quick bite to eat before heading over to see Queens of the Stone Age (they rocked). Unfortunately, the concept of fast food seems to have escaped this town's understanding. It's shitty burgers at low prices served up sorta warm and really quick. I should have my burger before I finish picking up the change.

Now, I'm a patient person, but it was just taking forever. I was sitting at a vaguely clean booth with two flies flailing through their final death throes on the table. I didn't say anything. I don't like to get uppity with people handling my food, and it turns my stomach when someone talks down to a waiter/waitress/server. I've stopped being friends with people because of it.

I just sat it out. At the tables behind me was a Christian men's group talking about the scriptures. I wasn't really paying attention, but only because they seemed to be speaking in some kind of code. I wish I could remember the word the leader kept using. Proclivity? It's lost to me. I figured I had to be in the know. I had to be born again. Or initiated. Or something. I see the group in there all the time, and I always wondered why they chose to meet in a Jack in the Box. I would've at least sprung for a Carl's Jr.

Eventually, my name was called, and I retrieved my tray of food: a Sourdough Jack and a small curly fries. It's about as good as it sounds.

I finished up at the same time as the men's group. While I was at the garbage can dumping the paper wrappers, the leader came up to me and introduced himself. His name was John. He said the group met there every Tuesday. He kept looking at my shirt--for a local metal band--that had a minotaur on it. He asked me if I had a relationship with God. I told him I did "in my own way." When I said it, I felt like a douchebag. A simple yes or no would've sufficed. I just thought a definite answer one way or the other would've led into a deeper conversation, and I really just wanted to get drunk and see a rock show, and I was lucky enough to do both. I've become increasingly proficient at giving answers that aren't answers. It sounds like it could be an answer, but it's so open-ended and esoteric that it doesn't really say anything. It seemed like a good enough response, though, because all he said in response was, "I understand." I'm glad one of us did.

eye candy

Since I saw the first trailer, I was pretty amped up about the Transformers movie. I figured it'd be either one of the coolest action movies ever made or the worst piece of shit since the American remake of Godzilla. Over the past few months, my expectations wavered across the spectrum. But I was crazy about the toys and cartoons when I was a kid, and my love for nostalgia is just too strong. I just got back from Transformers, and I think I'm still a bit shaken up. I'm not trying to say that this was a remarkable piece of cinema that will change the way you feel about life. I mean, it might. And if it does that to you, I'm sorry; but what I am saying is that the last half hour or so left me rather shaken and in a paralyzing state of awe.

If you took a shot for every explosion in this movie, you'd die of alcohol poisoning before the second act. There was a scene where the lead character's father takes him to a used car lot to buy his first car, and even then there's an explosion. And if things weren't exploding, there were car chases, but those scenes usually just led to more explosions. I think in years to come, people who have seen the movie in theaters will end up being diagnosed with some kind of disorder like Post-Transformers Stress Syndrome or something like that. Symptoms include loss of hearing, chills and involuntary trembling.

Honestly, it was really good. It was pretty much the perfect summer blockbuster. The dialogue was triumphantly cheesy, Shia LeBeouf was kinda funny, Megan Fox held down the Sexy and the story moved right along very crisply. Even John Turturro was hilarious in a small role. I won't go into the story, because it was pretty basic. I mean, if you couldn't figure out what was going on from the trailers, you're beyond my help. All you need to know is that these robots pack a serious ass-whoopin'. A few years ago, computer animation had ceased to impress me, but the Lord of the Rings trilogy seemed to take all that shit to the next level. Though the third Spider-Man movie was a bit disappointing, I thought the computer effects were the best I'd ever seen. Transformers raised the bar even higher, because not only did the robots look amazing and interacted seamlessly with the human characters, but they also had a lot of personality which really sold the film.

My favorite was Bumblebee, because he was my favorite as a kid. I remember having the toy and transforming him so much that one of his legs fell off, but I wouldn't stop playing with him, I just had to stand him very carefully and keep him in car mode a lot. In the movie, Bumblebee's an old Camaro instead of a VW Bug, but the effect is still the same. He's still the little Transformer that could. He gets captured, he gets his ass kicked, but the little guy has a lot of heart and just keeps going out there, fighting the good fight. I mean, I suppose that could be considered just plain stupid, but "heroic" has a much nicer ring to it.