Monday, July 28, 2008

San Diego Comic-Con V 2.0 - Party Time!

Yes, before you even start to ask, I went to Comic-Con again this year, even though I had a horrid time last year. And yes, I do spend a great deal of time making fun of the kind of people who go to Comic-Con, and yes, I did just spend four days with them. Four days with arrested adolescents invading my personal space for 100 yards in every direction. Honestly, it wasn't that bad.

One of the major differences was that my friend John (who is a comic professional, which is the real reason we went) knows a few people in the biz, so we actually went to a pseudo-after-party the first night (probably the same one we were supposed to go to last year, but missed out on because I can't remember the difference between Hilton and Hyatt.) and met some nice folk, who invited us to a party the following night. So, that's what it's really all about. Not rubbing elbows with people dressed as super-heroes. Drinking with people who make the things that the other people dress up as. No wonder I had a crappy time last year.

Not only did we actually party this time, but we also had a better hotel, and had more time to see some of San Diego besides a one-mile radius of the Convention Center. We even hung out with my cousin on Sunday, who I haven't seen since we were eleven, I think. And we had some time on Sunday before we had to go to the airport, so we saw The Dark Knight, and I liked it even better the second time. The whole thing was just more relaxed this time.

But it wouldn't be a trip without a story, so here goes; John and I were at lunch one day at an rather cramped Irish pub. Two couples are seated next to us, both with small children, and since I am in the booth-half of our table, I get to share the bench with the baby bags and stuff. Before you think I'm being harsh, these people weren't dressed up or anything, but I did christen them the Flinstones. Anyway, I'm about half-way into my chicken sandwich and I think I hear them saying something about the baby needing to be changed. John mouths to me "Are they changing a diaper?" I turn to see the mother laying a clean diaper out on the bench, not 2 feet away from me and my plate of food. I try to block this out when suddenly they discuss how they are going to change this baby's diaper: the plan is for the father to hold up said baby pretty much directly above our table, and the mother will yank the diaper off from the bottom. This I must protest.

"Look, I'm sorry. There are restrooms."

"Uh, well..."

"Really, I don't mean to be a jerk, but we're trying to eat here. I mean, come on."

The father angrily grabs the diaper and teh kid (all the while spitting the word "Fine!" as if I asked him for someting outrageous) and goes to the restroom to change him. I thank him for this, although I don't really know why. What the hell was he thinking in the first place? The other father, who had an older child, one who might actually enjoy some of the events at Comic-Con, whereas this infant has no idea what's going on, says to me that it is sometimes really hard to change a diaper in a restroom. I wanted to say that it's really hard to eat lunch with diaper shit in my food, but I just sort of shrug. I should have said, "Not my problem. Go to Chuck E. Cheese next time."

Honestly, lunch is ruined anyway, so I might as well have just let them do it because the very thought of someone changing a diaper in a crowded restaurant right above my plate took away my appetite. I actually could not believe the number of strollers at the convention. Why would someone torture themselves like this? It's like pushing one through South Station at rush hour after a train has been disabled, backing every other train up. And rush hour would last all day. Like I said, the child has no idea what's happening, and I can't imagine the parents are enjoying themselves because they have to care for the infant. So what is the point? John and I eventually came up with a joke that these people must have met a year ago at Comic-Con, fornicated, and now they all have three-month old children.

I hate to be the wet blanket, but if your child is incapable of walking the aisles at Comic-Con, it's maybe best you hold off on it for a few years. Or leave it with your in-laws or whatever. Just because you had sex at the appropriate time of the month doesn't give you the right to change your baby wherever the Hell you want. How would you like it if I crapped on your table? The truth is I'd be thrown out and probably fined or whatever, but the Waltons get to do whatever they want because they have a child.

Still, all in all, it was a good time. Don't let the bastards get you down, right?

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