Con Job

I really can't blame the fire marshall for doing his job but, in a way, things worked out fine in the end. Of course, before we get to the end, I really should start at the beginning.

Tonight's tale began 31 years and three months ago, when a small Italian woman gave birth to a--what? Too far back? OK then, my first introduction to comic book conventions began when I was in college. It seems like only yesterday, but in reality it's been well over a decade. I mostly went to ICON, held every March in Eastern Long Island. Once, in the mid-‘90s, I went to a convention at the Javits Center in Manhattan. And about three years ago, thanks to a coworker's connection at Wizard, I got to attend a convention in Philadelphia as a V.I.P. I spent more money on parking for that one. The best part about the conventions was getting to hear from various writers and artists, as well as screen trailers and scenes from upcoming movies. Another entertaining factor were the extreme fans, garbed in homemade costumes of their favorite characters. Of course, in true MCF fashion, my first encounter with one of these fans was somewhat traumatizing. Across a field at my first ICON, I saw a tall female figure approaching. I soon saw she was made up to be a Klingon. As she got closer, I saw part of her robe had fallen away to reveal a large exposed alien breast. As she got even closer, I realized the boob was painted latex, slightly melted, but found a common denominator between it and a horrific car crash; I couldn't look away as much as I wanted to. It was only when I realized it was a MAN, that my disgust allowed me to move on with haste.

A few weeks ago, an agent representing several illustrators I've hired in the past sent me an e-mail, calling attention to the fact that a convention would be taking place this weekend at the Javits Center. Located a few blocks from Penn Station, which is a little over an hour from where I live, it was a pretty easy and convenient place to get to. As I considered it, looking at the weather and the guest list, I finally decided to go. I didn't order tickets in advance, but I got in to Manhattan around 9:30 this morning, and the first panel I wanted to go to didn't start until 11 AM. I took my time, taking pictures of the city as I've long been planning to do, and arrived around 10 AM. As I made my way inside, a few signs here and there indicated the coat check and the location of the vendors and the gamers, but none explained where admission could be purchased. I made my way down to where I saw a line looping around the lobby, and followed it. It ran from one end of the convention center to the other, looping around the balcony, and looked something like this:



I got on the end of the line, like a good sheep, but had my doubts. The couple ahead of me said they bought their tickets online, and that it was the ticket holder's line. A security guard nearby quickly dismissed this, and said the line was the line for everything. As we slowly moved, a few feet every ten minutes, convention officials would occasionally pass by, sometimes taking people who had already purchased tickets. I just wanted admission. I didn't expect to get in to see Kevin Smith or Milla Jovovich. I knew those would fill up, and my first priority was getting in to see Joe Quesada, who I'd seen before in Philadelphia. But when I was still on that line after 11, I gave up on that. There was still an artist's panel at noon I wanted to see, that included both John Romita and John Romita Jr. However, when I finally got to the point on the above diagram where the red line abruptly stops, disaster struck. A man in a megaphone walked by, proclaiming somewhat incoherently that the fire marshall had declared the floor to be full, and that only pre-registered ticket holders would be admitted. Additionally, we were told that the line we'd spent two hours on was NOT to buy tickets, despite reports to the contrary. “You should have just gone to that booth there,” gestured the security guard over his shoulder, to a booth that could only be seen once someone got to the end of the ridiculously long line.

I couldn't believe it. Not only would I miss the panels I planned to see, but I wouldn't get in at all. As we protested and remained at the front of the line the guard's supervisor, who looked and sounded exactly like Keith David, came over to find out what the problem was. As “Keith” heard our story, heard it corroborated by people behind us, he made a judgment call. He couldn't get us wristbands or official access to any of the panels, but he could get us in to the lower floor and vendor area. The other guard had stepped away to head down the line and let any one waiting for no reason in on the cruel twist of fate but, once he returned to his post, “Keith” motioned for four of us to follow him. He led us down and around, to the lower level and under stairs, and finally ushered us in to the crowded floor, shaking our hands and wishing us luck. In hindsight, I realize I probably should have tipped the guy. Wherever you are, if you're reading this, you rock, Mister Awesome and Reasonable Security Guard. Here's what my two hour trek to get in looked like:



Nervous that someone would notice my lack of a wristband and boot me out, I kept moving for the first hour, picking up business cards and admiring costumes, paintings and sculptures. I took a picture of a tall, balding artist that I thought might be Alex Ross, but moments later saw his name tag said Erik Larsen. At the back of the convention center at a small table signing old black-and-white photos of himself sat Peter Scolari, for some reason, and I got his picture as well. Nearby, actress Melody Anderson, from the classic Flash Gordon, was somewhat more camera-shy. I raised my camera to take her picture as she spoke to someone, but she raised her hand pointing to the left and it blocked her face. At first I thought she was giving the guy directions, so I lowered my camera and waited. She put her hand down, I raised my camera, and the hand came back up, this time with the palm out and her head turned away in the classic “damn you paparazzi!” pose. I got the message and moved on.

I continued on my way, snapping costumes and artwork and sculptures. I met a former coworker as well as one of my current editors, who confirmed that some of his friends were unable to get in. At the Wizard/Toyfare booth, I waited on line to play a familiar game. Back in 1994, I stood at a similar booth run by the same company, and gave the older twenty-something experts a trivia topic, The Avengers. When asked which issue Captain America joined the team, I surprised and frightened my friends by delivering the correct answer, issue #4. As a result, I was allowed to spin a wheel for a prize, and won a free comic. I've played the game at two other conventions since, winning once with a Transformers question and once with a Simpsons question. Today, following a 13-year-old girl with a Harry Potter question, I gave the younger twenty-somethings behind the counter the topic of Transformers Generation 1, and utterly bewildered them. One started asking me a question from a more modern series, but the another corrected him. I offered to change the topic but they waved me aside, ultimately ending up huddled in a group of three. Finally one turned around and posed the question, “Who ends up with the Matrix in the movie?” To make a long story slightly shorter, I won a Wolverine comic and walked away feeling very old to have stumped the “experts” with the topic of an ‘80s cartoon.

The best part of the day came when I saw Tom DeFalco sitting in a booth with no guests. A few guys leafed through the books he was selling but when Mr. DeFalco jokingly asked them to buy them because he “needed to eat”, they walked off. During the eight years I collected comics, he wrote some of my favorites, including Thor, Thunderstrike, Fantastic Four and The Amazing Spider-man. Lately he's been writing various guides to comic book characters for the publisher DK, large coffee table books encompassing decades of history. I picked up Avengers: The Ultimate Guide, as a girl working the booth asked if I'd like to purchase it for $21 and have it signed. I bought it without hesitation and presented it to him, at a complete loss for words as I tried to remember precisely WHICH books he'd written that I'd read. He asked my name, which I've omitted of course from the following photos, and presented me with the following:




I shook his hand enthusiastically and thanked him. As I walked away, I paused to turn and take his picture before calling it a day. His signature joins elite ranks, as the only other professional signatures I've obtained in my lifetime came from Simon Bisley and Jerry “J-No” Novick. Before catching my train, I ventured a few blocks away for a surprise photo opportunity. I haven't decided yet whether to share those photos along with pictures of the convention this Wednesday, or save them for the following week. It was a fun if exhausting day that almost didn't happen. I really can't blame the fire marshall for doing his job but, in a way, things worked out fine in the end.