Ah, yes, three days later, it’s time to recollect my adventures from Chicago. Sit back, relax, poor yourself a nice wine to sip while you enjoy this (I recommend a Riesling). It’ll be a while.
Thursday started in a state of delirium. Because of deadlines the previous week, I didn’t get a lot of sleep Tuesday night (about three hours, total). I was up early Wednesday morning finishing off some stories, which filled me with enough work until the evening. And that night Kendra and I were to be busy with last-minute preparations, from packing to finishing up the silk-screening of shirts. Alex and James, two dear friends, say it fit to spend a good four hours as slave labor, paid only in hamburger and fine conversation. Without their help, Chicago would not have been nearly as good as it was. About two hours before I needed to get to the airport, I was at Kinkos finishing up the Dernwerks logo. An hour before leaving, I finally got around to packing up everything.
Ambling through the airport, I boarded my plane on time, grabbed a cheap pillow, and drifted in and out of a frantic sleep. Somewhere in that time, I heard notes of how we couldn’t take off yet because of the weather in Chicago - thunderstorms, and O’Hare only had half the airport running. And then there was something blocking a runway at BWI. And turbulence. I was awake for the last few minutes of the flight, and was collecting my luggage and rental car shortly thereafter - not fully realizing that I was already a couple hours behind schedule.
THURSDAY, NOONISH
The stress had been piling up on me since about a week before San Diego. There was so much to do, so much to plan for. Now safely in Chicago, past Comic-Con, and with my bags stowed in an "economy" Kia Sportage (I never end up with the car I reserve), things were a bit more calm for me. Instead of spending the first night in Rosemont, where there was a ton of hustle and bustle, I scooted up the road a couple miles to Schaumberg, where there was more of a focus on Lollapalooza. However, for me, the focus was on watching those clouds burn away into a beautiful day, just in time for my first round of golf in four years. I shot a 60, beating Tiger’s mark that day. Sure, he played a full 18 and I was only doing nine, but he’s a pro. I, on the other hand, used to consider myself the worst golfer in the world. But Thursday, things were swinging very, very good. My 5-wood could do no wrong, my high irons got air, and my putter made some beautiful rolls. It was all so calming. I washed up a bit in the lockerroom, then hit the club’s bar for a french dip sandwich. After that fine meal, I rolled out of there and checked in at my temporary home. A shower and some quick calls, one to Kendra, one from Zailo, and I was off to the convention center.
THURSDAY, TWO HOURS AFTER I SHOULD HAVE BEEN THERE
It occurred to me that I didn’t have enough toll money. And that I didn’t actually have a map of Chicago. I pulled over, called my love, and explained roughly where I was. I made it within three blocks of the convention center, but was indeed heading in the wrong direction now. With new direction, I finally got there, parked my car for $11 (more expensive than any lot used in San Diego), and rolled my luggage through the big long tube. A few times I thought I was in the wrong spot, as that tube was deserted. Surely I was going in the wrong direction. But then I popped out, found the registration table, and rolled over to Artist Alley.
Save for the bother of setting up in early morning, I shouldn’t have bothered. It was a ghost town, and none of my neighbors would show up.
My feelings of being alone and isolated were easily amplified by my lack of sleep and the knowledge that Kendra and I were separated by a great distance. We’re not apart very often. So, a bit too emo, I don’t even bother eating in Rosemont, instead heading back to the hotel. My back was burning with pain, I’m a large guy and I don’t travel well. The spa, though, was broken, so no hot tub of relief. I didn’t feel like swimming, either, so I headed back up into the room and finally got some of that sleep that I’d been missing.
FRIDAY MORNING
Everything bright and sunny and refreshed, right?
Yeah, right.
I was a stone in the bed until 8:45. The con supposedly wanted us there at 9 a.m. for those VIPs that spent $150 on tickets. VIPs, mind you, that bought there tickets mostly for exclusive toys and Michael Turner covered comics and the ability to get in line first for autographs from Thomas Jane or Kristen Bell. Indy comics weren’t really high on their to-do list.
Things were just moving in a cover of syrup Friday morning. I checked some email items, not realizing that my laptop was still on EST, I thought it was already about 10:20. Not that I was freaked about those all-important first-20 minute sales, but that check-outs are normally about 10 a.m., and I didn’t want to pay for a second night. Anyhow, with a hurried packing and clean-up, I was out of there well before the real 10 a.m., and actually was able to drive straight to the show. I found some $3 parking, and was set up and open for business for when the normal con-attendees started to trickle in.
My sales started off pretty briskly, with the early favorite being the Dear Pirate Logo shirt (it’s the skull and crossbones on Pete’s hat). Expert’s Guide found a great audience, and I was able to finally start stock-piling Dear Pirate questions.
Very early on I befriended the guys to my right, Xmoor Studios. Robert and Eric are both stand-up guys and great people to be forced to sit next to for an entire weekend. I’ve been lucky for most of the shows that I go to get fairly nice convention folk next to me, save for maybe my first-ever convention. But these guys were easily the best I’ve ever met. It made sense to me why a steady stream of other creators continued to seek them out over the weekend. I, too, will seek them out at any con that I’m not sitting right next to them in the future.
There was a guy to my left selling modified dolls who’s name I didn’t catch. Beyond him was Evil Steve, a great illustrator that had such a love for the bizarrely wrong that it was obvious that we’d get along. And two booths down to my right was another Rob, whom’s card I forgot to snag. He was a portrait specialist, and was big with the locals with his Ozzie portrait (no, not that Ozzie. The baseball one).
FRIDAY AFTERNOON - A.K.A. ONE OF THE BEST MOMENTS OF MY COMICS CAREER
I had taken to calling my part of the artist’s alley the Tumor, as it was a weird out-growth of the convention floor. There was no organic foot-traffic there, which I imagine led to some of the more desperate boothers in the show. It’s really the only thing to explain the masses of people desperate not to make eye contact as they zombie-shuffled past, often without even looking at any of the tables, too. Maybe it was a bizarre exercise routine - artist alley shuffle. Often, those that did look at my table, even those that smiled or even laughed at the creativity of the products there, would get a terrified look in their eye if I started even the slightest conversation with them. This, ladies and gentlemen, is annoying.
I understand that there’s less-than-professional people in artist alley, and that they’re going to throw you the hard sell. It took me a painfull con to figure it out - Hard sells do not work. Instead, I surrender the selling decision to the consumer. But in the meantime, I don’t mind striking up a friendly conversation here and there. I may look scary (my head really is freakishly large), but I’m generally a nice guy. And yeah, there’s a danger that if you talk to me, you might get to like me, and you might find yourself buying something that will cause you enjoyment. I know, there’s worse fates out there (like papercuts). Truth be told, the majority of people that stopped by and talked to me did indeed buy something. So maybe those zombies were playing it safe with the shuffle, avoiding that potential enjoyment.
The one thing that pushed traffic into the Tumor was the autograph line. Not the row of booths with Lou and the wrestlers and the softcore pornstars - for cryptic reasons, they had one of the best chunks of poorly used real estate in the place. This was the snaked line area for when Thomas Jane, complete with a mohawk, tagged things for his legion. Or where Kristen Bell scribbled on pictures with lightning-fast speed to get the heck out of there. And on Friday, the brothers Kubert did a signing stint. I made a note to heckle Adam about his softball skills, and was glad later that I didn’t get around to making an ass of myself.
If it were for the occasional Wizard feature, or nametags worn at conventions, comic book creators are generally anonymous. I personally am an offender of this, as I generally don’t get my picture taken. It’s kind of fun being a celebrity within a finitely small amount of space, and only in certain realms. Geoff Johns can still take in a movie, and Brian Michael Bendis is an unknown when he goes to Starbucks (sweeping generalizations brought to you by Prove Me Wrong-brand Facts!). And Andy Kubert more than blends in, even if he’s walking down artist ally at a con, only 20 yards from where 400 people were waiting for his autograph.
As mentioned earlier, the Dear Pirate black logo shirts were eye-catchers. And as such, they caught Andy’s eye, and he started to buy one, as well as a copy of the Expert’s Guide. I noticed who he was as I was collecting the cash, and got a little fanboyish. I mean, one of the royal families of comic book art was paying me for my comic book stuff.
Then there was the kicker.
"Wait, aren’t you going to sign it?" Andy asked.
Handing back to me the copy of Expert’s Guide, he who just signed his name 400 times, wanted me to sign my name for him. I officially tripped into Bizarro World.
It was just one of those defining moments, where I learned another part of the secret handshake. It also occurred to me that I might as well pack up then and there, because the day could not get better. I stayed, though, as Kendra’s flight wasn’t due in for another four hours or so. I almost closed out the day with a sale, with a couple of guys reading over everything and absolutely loving every word. And absolutely not having a dollar left in their pockets after the day. So while my new Xmoor friends shared a laugh at my expense as they were already packed and good to go, I had to quietly slump back down in an uncomfortable chair and finish my packing.
It was still a great day. Knowing that Kendra was sky-bound and unable to talk, I made a few calls to my sister and parents. They were in Reno for Hot August Nights, Dad’s car was winning quite a bit of trophy action, as well as some cash prizes. Their gambling was even going good, too. Things were just aligned for House Gendron. Heck, while I was talking to them, I even saw the mohawked Thomas Jane wander by.
With still a good 90 minutes or so to go until I could head over to the airport, I wandered into the Hyatt looking for some non-McDonalds food. It was the only fast food place anywhere nearby, and I get ill when I eat it. So something quasi-fancy was in order, and I found Knuckles. I had no idea that it was the traditional bastion of comic shenanigans. It was a sports bar, and I was feeding the other side of my geekness. That, and the signature item at any sports bar usually fits my cuisine ideals. So a Knuckle Sandwich gave me a refueling.
I killed the last bit of time reading in the lobby. There were some nice Bendis Board people hanging out. I made a note to join the board someday soon. And Kendra’s flight was uneventful, though navigation O’Hare was an adventure unto itself. We stayed that night at our Uncle Tony’s, which was about 10 minutes south of the convention center. We hadn’t seen them in a couple years, so it was good to see everyone.
