A Brief Photo Tour of the 2008 San Diego Comic-Con, or, "Mother, May I Use Your Sewing Machine Tonight?"
I can only assume that the "S" on his chest stands for "Sciatica pain? Why yes, I've got that in abundance." Seriously... dude... there's an unspoken rule in the geek community that clearly states a cut-off age for dressing up like a superhero and going out in public. The reason why we have that: You're basically the saddest vision of our future since we thought we heard our right hand say "I love you" one night after stumbling onto some Buffy slash-fiction. On the plus side, guys who waited all day in line to see the Head Letterer for some of Marvel's more obscure titles just slapped themselves on the forehead and said, "Holy shit, I need to buy some decent slacks and hit the bars or FUCKING SOMETHING!"
Okay, ignore the douchiest pirate to ever pretend-sail the pretend-seas and then ignore the daddy-issues Ecstasy freak who's only here for the attention... what the fuck is up with Old Man Whitherspoon over there, chilling in a sweat suit and rocking an official lanyard that gets him into all the parties, no questions asked? Does he know the guy who's shoveling in all the famous people's blow? Is he Stan Lee's dad? Or did he just bust out an indie comic after sixty years working in a liquor store like a new-wave Harvey Pekar, but with a drinking problem and a deep hatred for any ethnicity other than his own? Well, whatever the case, make friends with him early and never leave his side. He's got the keys to the kingdom and you're about to have a night so life-changing, you'll wake up tomorrow as an orangutan that knows kung-fu or a 1967 Chevy Impala that runs on awesome and takes trips to the Moon.
Why yes... this is exactly what I see when I look in the mirror.
(sigh)... oookay, Reuben, lets have ourselves a little conversation, fat guy to fat guy... see, there's a concept that you need to get on board with called "dressing weight appropriate." It's where you deeply, deeply embrace the world of wide-waisted khaki pants and layers of dress shirts and t-shirts and ponchos and occasionally you just wrap yourself in a Coleman tent and just wear that because fuck it, at least it's obscuring your man-boobs. What you DON'T do is dress up like The Dark Knight Got A Thyroid Problem. That's just BEGGING for trouble, my man. Remember, "Batman" is one letter away from "Fatman" and, trust me, even really stupid people are going to figure that shit out quick. Oh, and... last thing... can you not go twelve hours at the Con without snacks? You had to break shit down in the Ralph's junk food isle? HAD to? Think about it... think about everything... and get the damn Twizzlers out of your utility belt.
Fuck me running, I was just thinking to myself how awesome it would be to have a perfect example of someone dressing weight appropriate for the Con and then the coolest lesbian in the world walked up and said, "I get the feeling you need me right now." Swear to Christ, I teared up a little, because how often do John Candy remembrance miracles just show up out of nowhere backed by a choir of angels and throwing out thumbs up like gang signs of love?
There's playing to your strengths, and then there's hitting the nail on the head so hard, the nail dies alone in an apartment with a bunch of cats and the complete Xena: Warrior Princess series on DVD taking up all the shelf space not occupied by well-worn, deeply pornographic romance novels. (ps the nail is you)
"I've really always thought of myself as a pan-sexual being from a planet that's modeled after all the lovely, elegant things about 19th century Japan, but with hair like the guy who runs the Urban Decay nail polish kiosk at the mall and a love for the color pink that lets my heartsong roar like a beautiful, sensual tiger and... huh...? What are you talking about? What comic book convention?"