By Eric DiGiovanni
We broke out, yeah we’re running crazy
Down The middle of the boulevard!
It’s a nerd alert! It’s a nerd alert!
And you’ll never take us alive!!
-The Aquabats
What are you on the far left? A creepy child sex slave? Yikes. — Photo by Eric DiGiovanni
It started like any other Friday: I fought to stay awake at my 9 AM recitation, then went to the Student Activities Center for squat day at the gym. I was getting my pre-workout caffeine dose when a stubby man in Coke bottle glasses wandered over to a girl in line for omelets.
“Where’s the I-Con convention?” he honked. The girl calmly directed him out to the lobby, where workers were starting to set up the ticket booths. “When does it start?” he honked again. That’s when I did the worst possible thing:
“Uh, I think everything starts at 6.” I said.
“6 PM?” he yelled. “6 PM?”
“Well, this is a college campus. I guess by 6 all the Friday classes are over.” It was probably an oversight on his part. I was sure he’d calm down after that.
“6 PM?” he continued to squawk. “6 PM?” He kept going until after I left.
At 3 PM me and Andrew Fraley, the Executive Editor, went to get our press passes and comp tickets at the SAC. I always love the wee hours before I-Con. It’s like Christmas Eve, only instead of presents; you get geeks and nerds of all severity and breed. There were already a couple of people in costume in the lobby by the time we got in there. We were then sent around the 6-by-8 foot table five different times just to get our tickets.
“Hey, I’m Andrew Fraley from the Stony Brook Press; we’re here to pick up our passes.”
The man at the table fed us this line: “Yeah, sorry, we couldn’t do it all one pack. Everyone is going to have to pick up their own passes.” He gave Andrew his, and I jumped in.
“I’m Eric DiGiovanni, Photo Editor for the Press. I was promised a comp ticket?”
He perused his list, giving me enough time to get optimistic. “Ooh, due to budget constraints, we were only able to secure two comp tickets. I think a, uh, Alex Nagler already took his, I don’t remember who the other one was.”
“Oh, yeah, Jason Wirchin” Andrew said. As we left, he whispered “We’re just going to switch off with them anyway.” Then, less than a minute of thought later, it hit him. “Fuck, we can’t do that; there’s not enough.” Didn’t matter too much to me. Most of the panels don’t require passes, and I had a couple tricks up my sleeve to get in anywhere else. My only thought was why he would give a free ticket to Sci-Fi-Fantasy-Anime Land to the Sports Editor.
By around 5, the line had looped all the way back to the Engineering Quad and was reaching the edge of the parking lot. I walked along, trying to process the, for lack of a better word, enormity of the situation. Chun-Li, Sora and Riku from Kingdom Hearts, Solid Snake, two Pokemon (most likely doubling up as furries), Travis Touchdown, about ten guys in steampunk goggles, Luigi, and about 15 Naruto headbands. It was going to be an interesting weekend, and I was definitely the best looking guy on campus. Although a guy dressed as Protoman was getting quite a bit of attention from some ladies.
Afterwards, I went to get a salad in the SAC. I sat in the lobby, just watching everyone else wait. Right next to me, an older man, possibly suffering from some breed of mental handicap, and a woman who was either his partner or his handler were talking about nerd gossip to some kid. You know, all the upcoming movies and comic books and what not. Eventually the topic came to World War Z and the upcoming movie.
“He’s a zombie survivalist,” she boasts.
“Cardio, I always tell her. Cardio!” he adds. Meanwhile both of them easily clear the 250 pound mark. “Don’t use a chainsaw. They get stuck, and if you miss something, you can decapitate yourself.”
“We have a friend who’s bigger than both of us combined-” Holy shit, I thought, He’s really fucked when the apocalypse comes. “Our plan is to drop him off at the mall, loot the iMac store and run away.”
My attention drifts back to the costumes: Green ranger, black mage, companion cubes, a third of the BLU team. Reminded me of the headphones I left behind this morning. Hopefully someone either turned them in to the Port Jefferson LIRR station, or they were still lying there on the tracks. Those were some damn good headphones. Had a built in mic and everything.
I went back to the dining hall to get soda. I’d need a lot of caffeine if I wanted to cover this thing.
A group of cosplayers led by Ash Ketchum from Pokemon (the early design from my childhood, none of this new bullshit where he’s wearing that T-shirt hoodie) were right behind me in line. My drum major friend, Geoff, from my Homecoming piece was behind them. Body language says everything about how a person is really feeling. Shaky hands give away tension despite the smiling face, and gesturing before word imply honesty and belief in what is being said.
Geoff’s face the very moment he laid eyes on that group: wide eyes, jaw agape, eyebrows raised ever so slightly, showed me a fish out of water; frightened and waiting to flop back into the ocean.
“Hey.” I said.
He snapped out of it, relieved to find someone “normal”. “Oh, hey!” he said.
“What are you doing for spring break?”
“Well, I was going to go to Myrtle Beach, but that fell through. So I’m just going to be sleeeeeping.”
“I hear that. I’m staying to cover I-Con.”
“Oh, that’s cool.” Eyebrows raised, head nodding quickly: I was a fucking ghost. “Anyway, see you around!” He left in hurry. I took another look at the line outside. Damn, there were a lot of white people. Maybe if Stuff White People Like was updating, this article could be an entry.
Things were still getting set up in the console room where I was temporarily distracted by the Big Damn Shiny Thing known as God Of War III. I was scaling Mount Olympus, being climbed by two titans, as I fought Poseidon in his horse crab form on Mother Nature. That was the first level. Remember when the most popular video game was just matching up blocks in lines?
It was getting cold when I went over to the dealers room. En route, I met up with a group of young girls. They seemed nice, and made good traveling companions, until they started squealing over the different cosplayers. All I could do was shake my head. Then I remembered what I was dealing with, and snapped a quick shot of the RED Sniper.
“Is that the Sniper?” one of the girls screamed.
“Yeah,” I said. “I saw the BLU one in line earlier.”
“I picked him for Fandom Deathmatch last year.”
“Fandom Deathmatch?” I asked. Familiar with the “fandom”, I prepared myself for the worst.
“Basically, it’s this panel where everyone pulls these different character’s names from a hat, and then we debate over who would win.”
“I think one time they had Pyramid Head vs. Pikachu.” One of her friends said. The scariest thing about that statement wasn’t that everyone at the panel was debating it, oh no. It‘s the fact that the damn thing was playing out in my head.
It’s in a moldy, dank kitchen in some forgotten corner of Silent Hill. Then again, isn’t the whole town one forgotten wasteland in a corner of America these days? Blood splattered walls mirrored the grease stained floors in their haphazard spottiness. No doorway was entirely square, what with the head shaped holes in the frame. The pictures on the counter showed a happy family in happy times. Their ghosts haunt this decrepit battlefield, as Pyramid Head stalks the small mouse. Pikachu’s legs shake, ready for action, but all he eeks out at sight of the hulking figure before him was a meager Piiiikaa…
Pyramid Head screams as he raises his large knife. Just then, Pikachu’s animal instincts kick in, and he leaps out of the way, as the blade puts a dent in the refrigerator.
As his foe turns around, he musters up all he can in his cheeks and lets loose a jolt of thunder. Pyramid Head’s knife absorbs the shock, and it is forced out his hand.
GRABAASHLAAGH!!
After this garbled diatribe, Pikachu lunges in for a headbutt, but is smacked into the wall. Pyramid reaches down to pick up his sword, but sees an empty room, as Pikachu makes his escape out to the streets of a cold, unforgiving city, unaware of the town’s true nature.
“Oh yeah! Another good one was Alucard vs. Bugs Bunny” That one didn’t manifest as we all walked by the Protoman before, still rolling with an entourage.
“So where are you lovely ladies off to this evening?”
“We were going over to the dealer’s room.”
“That’s cool.” I remembered I still didn’t have a pass. There wasn’t much of a line, but it just long enough for me to formulate a plan. “So what are you hoping to see down there?” I asked to cute blonde of the group.
“I don’t know, but they always have some pretty good stuff,” she said, as I shoved a slip from my notepad into the empty lanyard.
I wrote down a couple notes as I kept looked right into those eyes of hers. They were as bright as the sun, even at six at night. “Yeah. So, like, does everybody but me know that Protoman guy outside?”
Security waved me in.
That crappy show is, like, 20 years old. — Photo by Eric DiGiovanni
“He was there last year when it was at Suffolk Community College. It kinda sucked last year, but he managed to make everyone really happy.”
I kept my head down and my camera close to my chest, as I began to write down the past five minutes.
Security waved me in again.
It was only 6:30, at a few tables were still setting up. Interesting enough, the biggest shops were the ones that were all ready by the time I got there.
I had $200 in my pocket, along with a joint I was too paranoid to smoke on campus, and minibottles of Jaegermiester and vodka, so needless to say, I felt like money was no object.
One of the big manga dealers caught my eye, and I began perusing its shelves.
“Can I help you with anything?” asked the shop-keep.
“No, I’m good.” I continued looking for anything that didn’t span dozens of volumes.
“Manga-wise, there’s lots of good stuff out right now. For example, there’s the Battle Royale manga. Have you ever seen that movie? It’s about these kids left on this island-“
“-and they have to kill each other. Yeah, I heard about it, but never saw it.” I continued looking through the shelves, never once making eye contact.
“It’s really good. They haven’t released it in the States yet, and it’s, what, almost 10 years old.” He probably rattled off a couple other titles, but I wasn’t really interested.
I went back to the Press office to get my laptop. I heard there was a LAN in the Earth and Space Sciences building, and I wanted to backstab some punks in Team Fortress 2. I poured myself a cup of coffee, and went upstairs for sugar and milk.
When I got to the Union, it was already closed. My main location for late night snacks during production weekend was closed. At 7 PM. The handicap entrance was still open, and I ran in.
The manager stopped me. “We’re closed”
“I’m just getting sugar and milk, I’ll be 5 seconds.”
“Nope, we’re closed.” As I left, he called out to me. “By the way,” he said, snubbing his nose and folding his arms, “I see you come in here and take a piece of candy from time to time. I’m just saying, if I catch you again, we need to have a talk.”
“Oh? Really?” I asked, killing him with my eyes. “Well, I guess I’m cheating you out of money then. Oh wait, you already have my money, from the tuition I pay to keep your ass employed. Also, I do believe you fucking owe me for the hours of work I missed. Remember, you fired me, just because I was rude to one customer? It sucked working here, but I still did my damn job. I’m surprised that between the same 5 songs on MtvU and all everyone wanting breaded chicken on a roll, no mayo, I didn’t snap sooner.”
Instead, I just walked out, trying to look ashamed.
To the guy who runs the Union Deli and to the oversensitive shitpeg who got me fired because I responded to “How are you?” with “How do you think, I’m working here?”, fuck you.
By the time I got my stuff and tried to leave, they were already locking the doors in the Union Basement.
“What? It’s only 7!”
“Spring Break,” said the lackey locking the doors.
Great. This was the first instance of “You’re not welcome here.” The second was the weekend they scheduled it: Spring break. It was like saying: “Here cool kids, get a three day head start drinking and partying in Cancun while all the loser kids are back at school playing Pokey Mans and watching Trek Wars.” There had always been a disconnect between the campus and the event. Stony Brook’s a suitcase school: most stay up on campus all week long, then go back home on the weekend. Some enjoy the festivities; others wonder why this money couldn’t have been spent on something more productive, like another Crafts Night. Either way, I stayed up to cover the damn thing warts and all.
The only problem now was an angle. “For three days, what am I looking for? What do I get out of this?” Roman, the other photo editor, was back home already, so I was the designated photographer. Despite my editorial status and urgency to have access, I was still without a pass. Luckily, forging a pass wouldn’t be too difficult, and there were a couple lying around back in the office.
The journey went on with laptop in backpack; I headed out to the LAN to see if anyone was up for some Left 4 Dead. The room was empty.
However, there was a panel, “Zombie Outbreak Survival Guide” not too far away in Harriman Hall. As a man of science, I am aware of at least 17 different ways our nation could be swarming with the braindead masses, from blocking the serotonin hormone, to a parasite known as toxoplasmosa gondii, to Glenn Beck fans. Naturally, I popped my head in.
The thought of zombie survival stirs up a lot of curiosity, because it just might be one of those no-win scenarios. There are so many questions we ask ourselves when we think zombies: How did it happen? How long would I last? What would my plans be? I think instead of criticizing Obama’s socialist-but-not-really-at-all health care bill, we should be focusing on his Zombie Apocalypse Plans. Still, at the end of the day, while it could happen, we don’t take it seriously. The logic sets in: there are scientists and agencies working around the clock to keep these things in check. Also, if a malevolent power were to start the outbreak, they wouldn’t have the proper means to control it, and the quality of life would suffer, simply because of the world outside the hopefully well fortified walls.
“When it comes to offense, you’ll want to pick them off at a distance. Fire’s also a good offensive and defensive tool, but you’ll want to keep it far away from your base.” Interestingly enough, the only shot the female presenter had at getting laid was in a desparate Earth repopulation scenario.
The male presenter offered some more tips: “A good rule of thumb is to avoid urban areas, as well as swamps and bodies of water.”
A kid in the front raised his hand. “Isn’t it true that the best place to hide would be the Hoover Dam? It’s well fortified and has plenty of generators.”
She replied, “Ideally, you’ll want to have a self sustaining commune.”
I looked around. People were seriously taking notes. I was too, but I had the excuse of a story to write.
“What are your opinions on hiding in a box?” asked a paunchy Solid Snake.
“Well, I guess you’re pre-packaged zombie food then!” snarked the male presenter. The panel went on for a bit longer, one girl wearing a knit cap looking intently, taking notes. Remember my little rant from before? The one about while it could happen, it won’t? It’s amazing how these people actually had taken their plans seriously. Most of us spend maybe a few minutes a month pondering this kind of thing, before thinking about buying a gun. Yet here were people whose entire lives are based around the end of everyone else’s.
The place was Standing Room Only. A girl dressed as the Witch from Left 4 Dead left her friend, The Hunter from the same game, and snuck by me, taking the only seat available. I continued looking around at the attendees as the panel went on.
“On thing we cannot stress enough is keeping in shape.” I heard from the front. Solid Snake looked down and touched his gut.
The Hunter ran up to her friend, and yelled “Startled The Witch!”
The Witch started screaming and howling as she chased the Hunter out the doorway and into the hall.
I snapped some pictures as it happened, and I wanted to see how this ended. “Leave it to me! I’ve covered wars, ya’ know!” I yelled. I guess they took the whole thing as seriously as I did.
At the next panel, the room had a very powerful smell. Contrary to what you might think, it wasn’t sweat or B.O. Instead it was the odor of disinfectant and detergent combined into something that repelled more than negated, like Axe. On a crazy hair, I sat in on a furry panel. If you’re a sensitive reader, just skip ahead until you see WEBCOMICS.
In medias res: “You’ll want to stock up on disinfectant. A place like Walmart has some pretty good deals.” You’d think for such a marginalized culture, the presenter would have a bit more enthusiasm. I snapped some pictures. Everyone stared at me like I was some alien creature about to skullfuck their brains and eat their flesh, but I didn’t yet, so they all held their breath in the hope that I would just go away. “And, uh, if you get a stain,” he said, eyes darting between me and his audience. “You should look up on the internet how to clean it.
He went into the process of how suit is made, and what materials are used, and I have to say, the Engineer in me was kind of interested. “Well, uh, the head is carved out polycarbonate materials…” However, the rest of my brain were thinking “Holy shit, what have I gotten myself into?”
Suddenly, I heard “Scrotie McBoogerballs!” come from down the hall. It was a panel on Newspaper Comics moving to the web, and they were in the middle of discussing that week’s South Park episode. The only attendees were old guys, most out of shape, who only read the paper for the funnies. Fat, old, but somehow up on the latest events, just like newspaper comics themselves. Really though, aside from ease of production, low barrier of entry, and the ability to produce edgier content for niche audiences, there’s no difference between newspaper and WEBCOMICS. I don’t see why the two need to be compared.
Back at the fursuiting panel, I got a better look at the guy in front. He was sitting next to a few of his creations, all beheaded foxes and wolves. His face lacked any passion or emotion, yet the heads next to him had bright, smiling faces. The rest of the attendees looked just as bad. Behind the mask, they’re crying tears onto their pockmarked face.
Most people shudder when they think of furries. I frown. A few weeks ago, some guy tried starting up a panel trying to “explain” furries. Me and Jason showed up for a minute on our way to the gym. It was empty save for a girl who was waiting for a friend.
We walked out. Jason shook like he just survived.
“That was fuckin’ weird man.”
“Oh… yeah…” I muttered.
Sad no one showed up, but can you really blame them?
The panel, right. “The worst thing is when, you know, kids stick their gum in your back.”
“Really?” You’ll never believe who asked that question. “That’s happened to you before?” It was a young black guy in a ninja outfit. Easily the second best looking man there.
“Yeah, twice,” responded the failure at the front of the room.
“Damn kids.”
Up in the SAC outside the WEBCOMIC panel, I saw a familiar face in a flowing medieval dress. She was mousy, but the kind of mousy where her reservations hid a girl that was up for anything. Her blonde hair was done up just right, and her dress was so beautiful and elaborate, I wanted to see it curled up at the foot of my bed.
“Weren’t you at that murder mystery thing on campus a while back?” It was one of those weekend events that practically threw free food at us, but no one showed up, because hey, suitcase school. Basically, we were all handed characters and halfway through someone died. Then the night was spent extorting each other for money and eating free food. I, however, was too busy messing with people as Mike Spillane, movie assistant who hates his job and all the Hollywood phonies. It wasn’t my fault the event encouraged trolling.
“Yeah, I was. I played a member of the award committee.”
“What’s with the dress?”
“Oh, I’m with the Dagohir people. I’m helping out with a few panels, so I got in for free. There’s ‘Medieval Torture’ later, and tomorrow morning there’s a tutorial on boffer weapons”
“That’s cool. I was wondering if-“
She walked off.
I went to see the guys from Johnny Wander. It was pretty good, and they were nice people, but they had no idea of how the school worked. Mostly the fact that if you’re here on the weekend, you’re fucked. It was adorable and pathetic at the same time. Although they were surprised as I was that a dining establishment would close at 9 PM when there’s still plenty of hungry geeks swarming the campus.
In my rounds around campus, I saw a gaggle of /b/tards and they all posed for a group picture. It’s amazing how everyone on campus instinctively poses for photos. Problem is, candid shots give me what I need. Still, they were nice about it, and Anonymous saluted me as a thank you. How many journalists can brag about that?
In the lobby, I saw a kid with a tail. It reminded me of the one question I forgot to ask at the fursuitng panel: “What’s with the tail?” I asked him.
“No reason.” He replied.
The Game room was packed to the gills. On the far side was a real big Star Trek operation with a video screen and at least 3 playmats. Next to them, one of the Trekkies got himself into a dungeon delve. A Trekkie playing Dungeons and Dragons. I’m surprised the universe didn’t collapse right then and there.
I started to chat up some woman by the entrance. Not playing mind you, but thumbing through a biology textbook.
“Hey” I said. “I guess you’re here with someone?”
“Yeah, my husbands over there.” She gestured to the table where a game of Call Of Cthulu was in progress.
“I guess you’re not that into this stuff, huh?”
“Eh, I have a paper due.”
“Yeah?”
“We came here from Binghamton, but somehow we ended up in Manhattan-“
“Oh, God.”
“I know. And that took forever. But three hours later, we’re here.” She sighed and went back to her book.
“I’m an engineering major myself. Trust me, I’ve written papers in pretty weird places too.”
“Yeah.” She laughed.
“Well, good luck with your paper,” I said, and went next door. That was where the “Wargaming” was. Think Risk, but more elaborate. They even set up trees and hills, every millimeter affecting the game. “This is quite the setup. What’s so great about it?” I remarked.
One of the gamers noticed me. “Yeah, it’s hard to get into, and leaves your wallet a little thin, and the rules can get a little complicated.”
“Then why do you do it?”
He paused for several seconds as he looked at me, looked at the dice in his hands, then back up at me. “I don’t know. It’s fun I guess.” That guy later asked me the pictures from the game would show up in the paper.
I told him the only thing I could: the truth. “I took 100 pictures already and it isn’t even Saturday yet. After I cut down all the blurry or off ones, I might have maybe 50 left. The paper will use three at most.”
“Oh, OK.” I looked back at the photos I took. They weren’t even that interesting.
I passed by the BLU team again, and a man in a combat cap and trenchcoat shouted “Yeah, RED Sucks!”
“Hey,” I frowned, “I worked as an Engie for RED. You know how hard that job is? I couldn’t trust anyone. Everyone was either trying to stab me in the back or destroy me equipment.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he laughed.
I laughed. “It’s all right. Then again, I’d kill to be back on the front lines. A lot better than being cooped up in a lab all day.”
A trio of Naruto cosplayers bumped into me on my way out. Here’s a little drinking game to play at I-Con. Everytime you see a Naruto headband, take a drink. Congratulations, you’re now dead. I dropped the question: “Why?”
“Well, I want to be a professional costumer.” Said one of the girls.
“This robe cost me $160 from a specialty website. I’m also looking to get blue eye contacts and dye my hair blonde for next time,” said the only boy among them.
“For Naruto?” I asked. For the uninitiated, Naruto is an anime about a ninja in training. He wears a reflective head, and yells “BELIEVE IT” at the top of his lungs. You know, sneaky stuff. “I don’t really keep up with it, but I knew first he had a bright orange jumpsuit, right? Then he started wearing black with orange highlights, and I guess this is his latest?”
“Um, actually, it’s from a ‘What If’ from the fandom when Naruto becomes hokage [,leader of the ninjas.]”
If the Trekkie didn’t cause some sort of universal rift, this kid certainly did. The next thing I remember was Captian America and the Iron Sheik arguing. Either that, or the Diet Pepsi I spiked with Jaegermeister. I guess Captain America was from a fandom “what if” too, where Steve Rogers had too many Cheetos and grew a beard.
“I am trying to foster peace here!” yelled Captain America. “If it weren’t for you idiots-“
“The outworlder has shown his true colors! He called us idiots!” the Iron Sheik sarcastically boasted to the crowd.
I’m you’re biggest fan,
I’ll follow you until you love me!
Papa, Paparazzi!
“My bad, hold on.” Said a member of the peanut gallery as he pulled out his phone.
“What The Fuck” didn’t even begin to cover my state of mind right now.
I went in to a lecture hall where others were gathered. A man in a leather jacket and ponytail was able to fill me in on the details.
“Well, we have come to earth to overthrow an evil emperor,”
“Like Xenu?” I am of course referring to the emperor who, with the aid of psychiatrists, froze all the aliens in his galaxy, dropped the aliensiciles into volcanoes, brainwashed their souls into believing in Jesus, Moses, and Mohammed. These brainwashed alien souls are the reason we feel bad sometimes. Apologies to all Scientologists reading this who have not been in the “church” for 5 years and paid $300,000 to reach OT3, because now you have Pneumonia.
Bustin' makes him feel good. — Photo by Eric DiGiovanni
“Exactly. Right now we’re in the middle of a conference that unites all these various tribes, so that we may select a new king.”
Some sort of alien dragon creature dragged me out. Apparently, Captain America wanted to have private audience.
“So, I hear you’re from the paper?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, me and my wife,” he said, pointing to the alien dragon. “Started this LARP about a year ago, and-“
“I think he’s been filled in on the story.” Said dragon-wife.
“Oh, all right. Let’s get this started then.”
The second the meeting started, the man in the jacket’s accent changed, and started talking about DNA tests. Apparently, someone had tried to attack an ambassador, and everyone was trying to figure out both the assassin and the man who hired him.
I took a seat in the back, next to a guy who called himself an archivist. For some reason, in this intergalactic hall of champions, there was a Pepsi machine. On my way there, I bumped into a “character”.
“Aw,” I said.
“What?” He turned around and looked at me.
“No, your Deadpool mask. I like him too.”
“Actually-” Oh God. “-I’m Warpath. A mercenary who is sort of a clone of Deadpool.” At least he admits it. Although Deadpool never struck me as the kind of person you need two of running around.
“What’s with the Rock Band guitar?” It hung around his shoulders like a loaded six-string.
“Different stuff happens depending on what song I play. It’s one of my powers.”
I took a look back into the conference hall. Apparently combat was initiated, and I ran in, psyched to possibly see people bashing each other’s heads in. That was LARPing, right? No, instead of foam weapons, they were fiddling around with playing cards. Then the combat took place. I took some more pictures and looked at the time codes. I needed my rest for the next day.
“I’m sorry,” I announced to the ambassadors. “But the transport back to Spaceport Jefferson leaves soon.”
Before the train came, about 10 minutes late in the freezing cold night, I had to do something drastic. I unzipped my fly, and took a leak off the platform. The stream took forever to end, and things were getting numb.
Either way, I showed the MTA.
SATURDAY
BLEEP! BLEEP! BLEEP!
“Damn it…” I hit the snooze on my alarm. I may not have a chance to sleep in, but I can make the most of my morning.
I lit up as I made some eggs and Jack Daniels coffee (yes, they really make it). I was feeling pretty good, up until I got to Main Street. MTA officers were directing traffic, and here I was, stoned off my ass. I managed to make it across to the bus station, where a guy talked my ear off about the old Stony Brook concerts. From The Who and The Allman Brothers, to Voltaire and AeroSith. Quite the fall.
I still must have been high by the time I got on campus, because I suddenly got the wild hair to hit the dealer’s room- Wait for it… Wait for it… wearing the Deadpool mask from an article I did a while back.
“This is nonsense!” said on of the guys ahead of me.
“I know. This line is ridiculous,” his friend replied.
“I mean, this is the only Con on the east coast that doesn’t send out tickets before hand.” He shook his head as I snapped some pictures of the line. “And another thing, the line last night could have went by so much quicker if they didn’t divide it by the alphabet. I mean, this is an engineering school, and these people didn’t think if they have a lot of S’s, you know, break up the line a bit?
“And look at these tickets! They’re so easy to forge.”
I believed him. My ticket was deemed valid, and they let me through.
There were more freaks in the dealer’s room, but damned if I can see them. Who would have figured that pulling a red book cover your face would hamper your vision.
Once my eyes readjusted and I could see the color red again, I plunked down some money at one of the anime vendors. I’m not a fan, but I couldn’t resist the siren’s call of The Grab Bag. You pay $20, and you get a random bag of stuff. It combines the excitement of Christmas, with the adrenaline rush of gambling, and at the end, you get anime crap.
As I pulled each item out, a man in yellow and purple bike gear creamed himself with every one.
“Oh my God, you got Lum? She did Inuyasha and Ramma ½! That’s a great find!” “The Stand Alone Complex OST? I have that, it’s really good.”
Keep in mind, this man was in his 30’s.
I walked out to drop my loot off at the office, and came upon a kid giving away free hugs.
“Ever think of charging?” I asked.
“Well, when I get to 300, I think I’m going to charge a dollar.” Charging for hugs? What recession? People took him up on the offer as they left.
What I saw next, I can’t really explain, but all I can do is say “Spontaneous Line Dance”. Then more people jumped in, clapping in unison, and swaying from side to side in rhythm. I smiled, as my camera clicked away. I don’t know why or how it happened but I glad it did nonetheless. Outside of the SAC Plaza, a bunch of strangers, united only by the fact that they were there, had one big group hug. At first I went, “What The Fuck” then “Why The Fuck Not” and joined in.
SNAP!
I woke up in the bathroom of God Knows Where, my only clue being a “That’s what you get for stealing my mask!” scrawled in my notepad. It was him again.
The room shifted ever so slightly.
“What the hell?” I waited, and the room began to move some more. It couldn’t be. “Am I on a boat or something?”
Slowly, I snuck along the walls until I happened upon a party. Lots of fancy shirts and military garb chatted while Sinatra played in the background. This must have been the ballroom. It looked pretty old-fashioned. Wooden panels on the walls clashed with the exposed steel girders above. It kind of felt like being in a rock club. But candelabras adorned every table, with bare wooden seats around. On the walls were port hole windows. I looked outside and saw miles and miles of ocean. I was on a motherfucking boat.
“Where am I?” I wondered aloud.
A limp wrested man with a Jamiacan accent, holding a deck of cards came up to me. “Why, you’re on the U.S.S. Victory!”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Well,” the man said, crossing his fingers and dropping the dialect, “It’s 1942. The U.S.S. Victory has been commissioned by the USO to take a pleasure cruise out into the Atlantic Ocean to give some allied soldiers a good time.” Then he uncrossed his fingers. “So, kick back, and enjoy yourself!”
A waiter offered me some pretzels and drinks. At least I wasn’t in hostile territory. Still, I needed to get some bearings. That guy did have his fingers crossed, so anything said I immediately wrote off as bullshit. My head was spinning. I couldn’t have been sent back in time, it was impossible. I walked over by one of the marines, sipping some sparkling cider. “Hi there,” he said.
“Hey.”
“You enjoying the war?”
“Eh, who really enjoys war anyway?”
“Hell, I do when it comes to those Nazi bastards”
It was then I realized that I had completely lost control over my own life. I did the only thing I could: I started writing. Every note, every little twitch I took note of. I may be in a different time period, but at least someone, somewhere, somewhen would hear my story, damn it! “What the hell is going on here?”
He crossed his fingers. If he was going to lie to me, he could at least try and hide it. “Are you familiar with improvisational acting?”
“You mean like ‘Whose Line Is It Anyway?’”
“Not that crude. This is more refined.”
Still confused, I wrote some more. If I was in the year 1942, I decided I might as well take advantage of this, despite not having access to a bookie or a stockbroker. The general on board caught me writing. “Come here, boy” he said. The captain stood by as he chomped on a cigar. “I’m General Coogi, and this here is the captain, O’Malley.”
“Hi,” I said, trying to look like belong.
“Who are ya, boy?”
“I’m Mike Spillane, reporter for the U.S.O. newspaper”
“Oh yeah? The Stars and Stripes?”
“Yeah.”
“What exactly are you writin’ about?”
“Let’s just say I’ve been hearing mumblings about a mutiny.”
The captain laughed a deep hearty laugh. “Nobody here gon’ t’ be takin’ over my ship, laddie”
The general laughed along. “But seriously,” His eyes narrowed. I could feel him glaring at me through his eyepatch. “How did you get on this ship?”
“I smelled a story, and snuck on.” Wrong. Move.
“What else have you heard?”
“Well, the Japanese recover pretty quickly from that A-Bomb and their auto market explodes. Oh, and you might want to invest in the National Cash Register Company”
“You didn’t happen to hear anything from that little meeting before, did you?”
”Nope, just caught the tail end of it.”
”So the words ‘Project Titan’ mean nothing to you?”
”Titan? That implies something pretty big is going down. I’ll have to keep my eyes open.”
The captain, a large, burly man, got right in my face. “Just remember: we’re on international waters, boyo.”
BEEP BADEEP BADEEP! BEEP BADEEP BADEEP!
That telegram barely saved my ass. Both men went to go check on it. The general turned to me, “You know what? Go with your mutiny story.” He was either messing with me, or I just stumbled onto something big. If they had characters to break, I didn’t strike hard enough.
I began to listen in on the other conversations. Something felt artificial about the whole thing. Nobody was making small talk. Every line of dialogue had some weight behind it. They weren’t talking like people; they were talking like NPCs in a video game, speaking only to give information. If they want to play by video game logic, I’m up for it.
The man with the cards from before came back. “Two crewmen, just out of arms reach, stand behind you and give a thumbs up to the captain.” Great. Now I was unable to escape.
This beautiful dame in a black dress caught my attention. I made conversation with the man keeping her. “Hey. Mike Spillane, reporter, and who might you be?”
“I own club in Havana. And this here,” he said, stroking the woman’s hair, “Is my biggest star.” He took a puff on his cigarette.
“Havana, Cuba?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Well, I’m not so sure about Cuba. I hear it’s pretty unstable. You never what crazy bastard might rise to power over there.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” she said. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s not in the war” said the owner, taking another puff and adjusting his fedora.
Clearly these people needed a history lesson courtesy of Professor “Spillane”. On a nearby whiteboard, I wrote the following:
4121945- FDR dies
4301945- Hitler commits suicide.
11221963- Kennedy Assassination.
9112001- World Trade Center attacked, Nickelback releases first album.
3272010- Current date, time paradox created.
We kept on sailing for a bit. Out in the distance, an island began to draw near. It looked volcanic, but there was no vegetation. Just then, our ship stopped. I didn’t hear a motor break down or anything. I took another look outside. Nothing. That is, except for a man with a briefcase leaping off the third floor, and landing on the second with nary a scratch.
The ship started to move again. It didn’t jerk forward, like what normally happens; it was a smooth acceleration. I went back inside again.
What's wrong with your faaace? — Photo by Eric DiGiovanni
“This is not happening, this is not happening, this is not happening” I muttered.
“Sir, we’re off course!” yelled one of my tails. That was the understatement of century, whether it be the 20th or the 21st. We must have been in the island. The walls and ceiling were smoothed black obsidian. What happened? Was there really a mutiny and this was their secret lair? Did we pass into the Bermuda Triangle? Nobody seemed to be panicking. We all came to same conclusion: there was something big at work here.
Just then, the General came stammering into the room. He lurched over to a nearby stool and stared off into the distance. His pale face kept twitching in odd patterns.
“Oh God, something’s wrong with him!”
“What do we do?”
“Uh, we need a healer!” exclaimed a soldier. He left to look for one.
“Healers? Don’t you mean a doctor?”
The soldier came back. “Um, sir?” The general didn’t respond. “Sir?”
“Huh, what?” He could barely speak.
“Sir, is it OK if I, I…”
“Out with it!”
“I need to borrow your sword. I’m going to try to bleed this… thing out.”
“Whevetikes” he mumbled.
“What?”
“Whatever… it takes…”
The solider stabbed the general right in his side. A black tar came rushing out of the gash and onto the ground. FSSSHHH… The substance started to burn through the floor. The soldier had to take off his shoes and shirt, and threw them wherever. I was still looking at the wound. It was the normal crimson now, but right before my eyes, it started to close.
“What the hell is goin’ on here? What have you done to me ship?” yelled the captain.
“The general, sir. He needed help.”
The captain ignored him and poured out his drink onto the tar. It was enough to dilute the brew and get it off the ship. The general stood up as the color returned to his face. “Good work, Private,” he said with a heavy sigh.
“Captain, you might want to look off port.” It was the ship’s engineer. She was covered in oil, and what looked like the black tar from before.
“What is it, lassie?”
“I’m not sure, sir. It looks like a giant octopus, but kinda like a crab…”
“When you looked at this beast, did it send a shiver down yer spine that went all the way to your boots? Did the world around seem so black, that yed never see the sun shine again?”
“…Yes”
“Kraken” the captian growled.
Everyone started talking and yelling. The club owner blurted out, “All right, I propose we have a giant orgy!”
“I’m with him!” I yelled. The world stopped making sense the minute I woke up on a USO boat. I might as well get sex out of it.
The man with the briefcase rolled in. “This is all your bloody fault!” yelled the captain.
“I had nothing to do with this!” he replied.
“Let’s get him!” The captain grabbed the man with the briefcase, as the general got out his sword. The briefcase opened up, and out fell a mysterious book.
I was about to snap a picture when the two crewmen tailing me shoved me over the rails. As I fell down into the gaping maw of the kraken, my only thought was “I die before I get to publish my big story. Sounds about right.”
SPLASH!
When I regained consciousness, I was in the dealer’s room, staring down a robot. It was just cardboard. This time. Apparently it was part of an internet show called “Dino Hunter M.D.” How robots got into the mess, I’ll have to watch the show. I checked my pockets as I walked out.
“Fuck! My notepad!” Did I really lose it in the ocean?
This grand narrative, every note, every anecdote lost. My memory’s nowhere near good enough to recall everything. That’s why I had pictures. I took out a notebook I was going to use to write the rough draft, and scawled out “LOOKING FOR SMALL BLUE NOTEBOOK! REALLY IMPORTANT!!”
I yelled at the top my lungs “Has anyone seen a small blue notebook?” “A small blue notebook.” Dante from Devil May Cry was holding a sign advertising his demon killing services right outside the exit. I handed him the sign. “Could you hold this, kid? It’s important. A story is at stake here!” He agreed, and I went back down.
I retraced my steps, looking through every pail, asking every vendor I so much as glanced at. I even looked at the lost and found in the back. He took a peek in the box, carefully looking through its contents. I crossed my fingers, my toes, I even did the sign of the cross.
“Nope, sorry.”
”Fuck!”
On my way out, I breezed by one of the booths that was playing clips from some crappy internet series on a TV, when what do I spy, but a small blue notebook. It was at the 258 West Authentic Booth.
“Wait, what? What’s this doing here?”
”You bought a print from me about half an hour ago.”
This is why I needed the notebook.
Good thing too, because I saw something article worthy: Spontaneous Furry Breakdancing.
Let me repeat that, because it is stuff like this that makes me question God’s real motivations: I found my notebook, because of a kind man who runs West Authentic, and as I leave, I see furries breakdancing.
I managed to talk to one of them after the crowd cleared out. “So, what was that all about?”
“Yeah, you know, why not?”
”I guess what I really meant was, why the fursuit…” He took a long pause. Some people, like me, get “Why’s” jammed down their throats all the time. And we’re expected to account for every why. Not one loophole is allowed, because every action is due to airtight logic. To some, like the man in the dog costume I was talking to, the “Why”s were never a factor.
“I mean, it varies from person to person, but I do it for fun. You know, like the anime guys. Hell, everyone loves hugging a furry,” Everyone except Jason, apparently. “and people have been pretty open to us.”
“So, you’re not afraid of the negative connotations? I mean, you don’t fuck in that thing, do you?”
“How can I?” he laughed. He wasn’t lying, it was completely flat. Either that or he must have left the version with the dick hole back in his room. “I mean, in every fandom, you’re going to have those negatives. It’s not all like that CSI episode.”
He is of course referring to the infamous CSI episode, “Fur and Loathing”, the one every furry points to as the reason people hate and prosecute them. I mean, it’s not like there are other reasons people don’t like them, like, I don’t know, the wasted talent, the fact that there are people who do screw in those things, or that thanks to their efforts on DeviantArt I can no longer play Sonic or Starfox 64 without night terrors.
“Yeah,” I said, “but if you remember, the entire point of that episode was that some farmer shot that guy because he really thought it was a raccoon.”
“Oh really?”
Didn’t even see the damn episode.
I went back to the console room, where every chalkboard was turned into /b/. “Over 9000”, “You Just Lost The Game”, scrawled on as if it were some lost culture trying to leave its mark before it died out.
“Motherfucking /b/tards in my motherfucking I-Con” I whispered. It’d be real interesting to see my generation when we get into politics. I played for a bit and went into the SAC to see if there were any good panels going on. In the lobby, there were guys, I shit you not, charging $5 for hugs.
“All right, I’ll bite. There are people here giving away hugs for free. Why should I pay you guys?”
“Well, we’ve had years of training to hug, and I believe that our hugs are superior to the competition’s.”
It was total bullshit. They’re harping on these nerd’s needs to belong. Honestly, what unsociable wretch is so desperate, he’s settled for paying for goddamn hugs of all things?
I paid them three bucks. “That gets a hug from each of us.”
They took my name, shook my hand and got to work. “I just want to say that, you’re a nice guy, Eric, and I’m glad you’re here right now.” I started cracking up. “I can just tell from your laugh, that you’re a kind soul, and well, I know you’re going places.”
His friend shook my hand and did the same thing. “It’s OK, Eric, it’s OK. You know, it’s really great that you chose to come and us, and that we’re together right here, in this very moment. You seem like a really nice guy, and I just wanted to say thanks.”
Upstairs, I met up with Alex. He noticed there was a “Sex and Fanfiction” panel going on, so we decided to scope it out.
As for the panel itself, most of the advice seemed like common sense: write it like any other action scene, make sure it’s not out of character, think about the consequences, etc.
“If you’re writing about some kink you don’t know about, for the love of God, ask a friend or someone who knows about it. If you’re desparate, go to an internet forum that covers it.” As Something Awful’s weekend web will show you, if it gets you off, there’s a forum for it. “Except for 4Chan, they’ll answer you for the lulz.” It was around that point Nagler left to scope out Javitz.
Interesting thing, there were more guys than girls. You’d figure with the most common fallacy in fanfiction being named after a girl (Mary Sue, i.e. a perfect character), it would be the other way around. Then again, knowing guys, we were just looking for better ways to describe how two, or most likely more, people fuck.
I was a couple seats away from this creeper who dropped this gem: “How come some characters are more prone to erotic fanfiction than others? I’m a fan of the Puma Twins from Tank Police. For those of you who don’t know, they are anime catgirls who were turned into love dolls and became thieves. How come there isn’t more porn about them?”
Another gem Alex missed out on: “In my second Samus Aran fanfic, she finds out she’s pregnant. It starts out with her hand broken because she was just so frustrated, she punched everything. I mean, she’s a bounty hunter, a wholesale kicker of ass, and now she might be responsible for bringing a new life into this world?” Basically, Samus calls an abortion doctor after presumably pages and pages of internal debate.
Then came this gem from the audience: “I mean, I guess one thing she’d need to think of is ‘How am I going to roll up into a Morph Ball now?’”
“God, I didn’t even think of that!”
Also mentioned was an erotic fanfiction between a Pokemon and its trainer, and the invocation of the name SONICHU, the bastard mutant child of Sonic and Pikachu. I was relieved to find out that someone else manages to follow that trainwreck too. All I can say about it, is that Sonichu is a lesson in writing insofar as it does EVERYTHING wrong.
On my trek to the Javits center, a man in a French maid outfit told me that I Lost The Game. I may have lost the game, but he lost his dignity. I got another bottle of Diet Pepsi, and again, spiked it with Jaegermeister. I needed the drink too, because just before the next round of events, I got a phone call.
“What time are you coming home tomorrow? It’s your father’s birthday.”
“I’m not sure. I’ll have to check the train schedule.”
”Oh, do you happen to have a recent copy of your resume?”
”Yeah, I got it saved on my Flash drive. Why?”
”Well, we were at you’re little cousin’s birthday party earlier today, and…” In the back of my mind, I was looking for the A button that get this conversation moving faster. “And she said her company might be hiring engineers.”
“Oh, OK. Thanks.”
This guy captures the drunken Tony Stark quite well. — Photo by Eric DiGiovanni
“You know, you need to be looking for these kinds of things…”
“I know.”
“OK, I love you”
“I love you too, Mom. Bye.”
Suddenly, I didn’t feel like doing anything really, knowing that by tomorrow it would all be over anyway. I slumped into the lecture halls to watch whatever they were showing. It was an anime called Bludgeoning Angel Dokuro Chan. It’s about an angel with a spiked bat who’s assigned to a junior high school kid. She always ends up killing him somehow. Basically, it’s a little like Japan’s South Park. The audience, and I laughed along, mostly amazed at its audacity.
I took a quick stroll around, and saw what I think was the most interesting story of the entire convention: a girl in cat-ears was crying on a bench over by the psychology building. A friend of hers, dressed in sharp suit stood by, holding her hand.
Back in Javits, a hundred people were upset because there wasn’t any hentai being played. I polished off a mini-bottle of vodka.
The booze kept me together long enough to catch some of Voltaire’s midnight show. I never heard of him before, apparently he was on Billy and Mandy, but still, he was funny. He reminded me of a Goth Jonathan Coulton. His songs had really great rhythms, I wondered why the hell people are always so down on goth music. Then I realized, it’s not the music, it’s the fans. Like Sonic and the Republican Party.
SUNDAY
I got back home around 2 AM, and to bed around 3. I ended up oversleeping and having to take a taxi, lugging along my backpack, laptop, laundry and guitar. Thankfully, Andrew was already in the office.
The Sports complex was pretty busy, but you could tell things were winding down. Tim, from my Dagorhir piece, was eating pizza with a friend. He waved me over.
“Hey! What’s up?”
“Not much. Just taking some last minute pictures before I have to go home later.”
“You got pictures? Any good ones?” I showed him the 250 some odd pics I had. We clicked across a picture of Team Rocket, and he said “Did you see those Team Rocket guys the other day?”
“No, I’ve been kind of everywhere.”
“Oh man, you missed it! OK, so this guy dressed as Ash brought a Pikachu doll with him. So he was minding his own business when these other two guys dressed as Team Rocket stole the Pikachu! He chased after them, got the doll back and everyone was clapping for him. But the thing is, he was like ‘I don’t even know those guys’”
That right there, was the thing I’ve been looking for to tie this whole thing together. Would either of those guys had the balls to steal, or to do the right thing outside of I-Con? Probably not, because that would have been “out-of-character” for them.
We all have a “character” we play, everyday. The husband, the son, the student, the jock, the lover, ever changing, depending on the audience. But we’re not characters, we’re people.
Nobody likes when we act out of character, and expose this humanity. Look at the Tiger Woods “incident” a couple months ago: everyone thought he was a superman: an amazing golfer, AND a True and Honest guy? Hooray! But wait, what’s this? He actually succumbed to temptation and had sex with one of the many women offering it up? Shock and horror! Or when Michael Phelps, a 23-year-old man, did that bong hit? He’s supposed to be an incorruptible ideal of a man!
All this spontaneity at I-Con is the result of having an opportunity to act out of character. I think I can see the logic behind cosplay, LARPers, and the escapism of nerdery in general, as sad as it may be. It’s all about wanting strength you don’t possess, confidence you don’t have, or a personality too unlike your own.
Sometimes, the only way we can act out of character, is to be a different one entirely.
