the happy mania

Oh dear god. The Comicon was... does a word that could accurately describe the damnable and giddy level of fandickery that is the SDCC exist? After an hour at Wednesday's Preview Night, I felt like my sanity had snapped. But in a good way, you know? As in, picking at a scab that hasn't healed yet.

Unbelievably on Saturday, Saloppe (as in the nick the friend I went with uses) gushed about 'next year'. I had not wanted a cigarette more than at that moment. It's just a crazy mix of things to see and things to fangirl at (Darwyn Cooke!) that all attempts trying to be sensible, damnit, ultimately failed.

Personally, I think it degenerated by the end of day 1 when making meaningless Goddamned Batman and Frank Miller jokes actually became hysterically funny. Sal, on the other hand, would argue it would be the morning of day 2 when we began our long-running Reverse Jesus skit (take the Reverse Flash, turn him into a wrestler, and add a pinch of blasphemy).

Will I go next year? *sigh* This Comicon actually forced me to look at my own reality (funny, innit?). Just as the SDCC allowed Sal to reconnect with her future career in animation (amazing how many people she knew there), the experience made me confront the choices in my life. Didn't I want to be a writer? Didn't I want to break into comics? Goddamnit, didn't I regret turning down that Tokyopop job?

There's nothing like illness, medication, regret, and alcohol to fuel a night's worth of melancholy. Not even the screening of 300 could cheer me up. But sometime that night when Frank Miller poignantly told us to 'Own Your Work', I realised, hell yeah I do want to write. And if the Comicon can be the catalyst to get my stupid arse in gear, I shall be there next year. And also to take my revenge at Ed Brubaker, who nearly made me cry at Wondercon years ago.