Friday. The heat is on. Run into some friends and the floors were packed. We walk, and then do lunch. The secondary purpose of my trip was to try and understand something, something I've been wrestling with for a while. I grew up a geek. And I still side myself with that, but I've grown contemptuous of those who have not evolved. Who dress up and want to be a 24/7 dork. It's just not my thing. But by hating geeks, am I a self hating nerd? Or have I flipped the script and joined the jock side? Where do I now fit in the schema of this world. A friend, Dave, said to me on the last day there "So, do you like comics?" and I told him I didn't. "Wow, you must really hate this, then." But Comic-Con (also referred to a nerd prom) has become about way more than comics, and has been for quite some time. Where do I fit in this spectrum, and do I have real contempt, or what is it? What does it all mean, Jerry? And again, the mixture of the different people is fascinating. There are the attractives and the unattractives. Do I class myself with which one, etc. etc. Where do I fit in the nerd divide? I have no idea. Should I be hating on people who make elaborate beautiful costumes, should I hate on the posers who wear ghetto outfits with no real care? Isn't the whole point of being a geek being yourself? I guess that's what I'm struggling with. But when dressing up in elaborate costuming as a character from fiction... And here's the fucking eye on the prize rub... Aren't you denying yourself? More on this as the Con coverage goes.
After wandering a bit, we decide on lunch, and I get a quesadilla which leaves much to be desired. And some Guiness (two in fact). But Q and I must head off to the Masters of Horror panel, as our friend Scott (who has a picture of me hugging a mutual friend on his blog http://www.mindofswan.blogspot.com/, which is a great read, BTW) we heard was to be a part of the panel. That didn't happen. Which was a mild disappointment, though the speakers consisted of John Landis, Mick Garris (whom we met a bit earlier), Stuart Gordon, Don Coscarelli, and William Malone. Landis hogged the spotlight but was rather amusing, though when we waded through the questions I buried my head in fear of some jackass tossing out a Vic Morrow reference, which thankfully never happened. After this we ran into more mutuals, and headed over to the Marriott for another beer and some snack food, which then led to The Fountain event. Open bar ladies and gents, some more friends, Elizabeth Berkley, Rachel Weisz and director Darren Aronofsky. I simply socialized and drank heavily, bouncing from group to group.
This wrapped up and the posse made their way to the Masters of Horror function, which also involved more booze, and food. On the way in I made an ass of myself with a faux pass. Unfortunately I'm one of those people who obsess over their mistakes and spend hours thinking about how stupid I've been. Nothing came of it, but it made me feel like a weenus, and wanting to do penance. This is a simple problem of mine, though I'm sure it effects others as well: When I do something wrong, I want to talk it out, when often the best thing to do is just let it drop. I'm like Stumpy in Rio Bravo to most people's Dean Martin.
Otherwise we got inside and hung with friends, met a guy who supposedly hates some of my friends but made nice, and who had a wife who was rather sociable, and met up with our friend Scott, whom I got to talk to and who told people that I'm working on something for him. Highlight of the trip, but the music was so loud he had to tell me after. We got out of there around midnightish or later and headed to another bar where there was going to be an afterparty at a floor suite. More drinking ensued, and other friends showed up, leading to an even bigger gathering as people waited for something to happen, which didn't until somewhere around 2 am. A gang of us go up and it's mostly a sausage hang... Sadly, though again more free booze. Though I had been drinking heavy and steady all day, the effects didn't really hit me until around 3:30 am, and at that point, I had to walk myself home, which to call what I did walking is something of an exaggeration. I stumbled, and clumsily made my way to our hotel room where I found a bed waiting for me, and I quickly passed out, not to wake until noon the next day. Stone cold out. But fifteen hours of drinking kinda does that to a body.