Surviving San Diego

I think it was around the time I bumped into a dwarf wearing a clown outfit while leaving a sci-fi lucha bar in the company of a small harem of women that I realized Comic-Con has really changed for me. To be certain, it’s always been a somewhat surreal experience, but this was the first year it seemed to play out like a four-day, Hunter S. Thompson button trip experienced after 48 hours of meditating to episodes of Adventure Time. It was weird, tiring and more than a little confusing. It left me with a scratchy throat and a sense of fatigue that I’ve been trying to sleep off ever since. It was also one of the most exhilarating experiences I’ve had in ages.

I’ve been going to Comic-Con since well before I started working in comics. I first began making the yearly pilgrimage down to San Diego when I was in college. I remember picking up the first few issues of Alan Moore’s League of Extraordinary Gentlemen one of the first years I attended. This year, I picked up its latest installment, Century: 1969. That’s about the only similarity between Comic-Con then and now, however. The first few times I went to Comic-Con, you could still get passes and a hotel room without crashing the internet. Comic-Con was contained entirely in the convention center, and there was no Hall H. All the big movie panels were in Ballroom 20, and you could actually get into them without lining up half of the day. (I actually used to cheat, showing up about 20 minutes before the prior panel had ended and telling the guard that I was there to check out the end of it, which allowed me to bypass the line of people waiting for the next one. Yeah, it’s astonishing that I had the nerve to act like such an entitled bastard, but what’s even more astonishing is that it actually worked.) At night, I hung out with friends and actually went to bed early so we could be up in time to catch the morning panels the next day. There were no mixers or parties and certainly no late night beer binges. Comic-Con was about fandom for me in those days.

And for the longest time, even after I began working within the industry as an editor and writer, I still adhered at least partially to that belief. But the biggest difference about this Comic-Con compared to all of the ones past was that this was the first year I begrudgingly accepted the fact that I’m there to work. I realized that as much as I’d love to take time out to check out the “Sexy Geek” panel or stroll through the Lionsgate booth to snag one of those mockingjay pins, I couldn’t. This is my once a year industry weekend, and as a freelancer in a very competitive industry, I had to make use of it. In fact, if you’ve been wondering why I don’t really have any photos to accompany this write-up, it’s because I almost never even took my camera out. I just didn’t have the time and my focus was elsewhere. I was more interested in taking business cards than snapshots this year, which may make for a more productive freelance schedule in the months ahead, but it also makes for a very visually uninteresting blog post. Sorry about that.

Part of this newfound acceptance meant connecting with as many of my friends in the industry as I could. I never really think of myself as knowing very many editors, writers and artists…until Comic-Con rolls around. Then it becomes clear exactly how many people I know. And what’s worse is that I really do like these people. I wanted to see them, and while I made a valiant effort to hunt all of them down, a few proved elusive. Several of the good folks that I missed have since told me they came by the Archaia booth and I wasn’t there, which I can only imagine means they came by when I was having lunch or drinks with the ones I did find. People live and die by their cell phones at Comic-Con, so I need to get better about giving my cell number to people I want to see at conventions. And then I need to hire someone to answer my cell phone for me. Considering 95% of my time at the show this year was spent meeting with people, signing comics, talking to fans or sleeping—none of which are really good times to pick up the phone—I found myself ignoring phone calls and text messages until I got a break, at which point I’d have something like 48,000 texts that I needed to respond to. I seriously think I might’ve broken Verizon.

I also had two books to promote this year: Fraggle Rock and Strawberry Shortcake. Shortcake was a little weird since for the most part, I was the only Strawberry Shortcake creator the publisher had in the booth, and I look far more like a lowlife in an Ed Brubaker comic than I do a writer of happy, girly things, but the little girls who bought the book didn’t seem to mind even if a few of their fathers were giving me strange looks. Besides, the great thing about Strawberry Shortcake was that we sold as many copies to adult women as to little girls, proving that men aren’t the only ones upset that their parents threw out all of their old toys. The most interesting one was a sparkly looking porn star who offered to trade me her X-rated coloring book for a copy of the issue. (One thing you never want to hear at a Strawberry Shortcake comic book signing is, “Do you like porn?”) I had to refuse the trade, but she was willing to buy the comic and left me the coloring book anyhow, along with a little pack of Disney Princess crayons.

But where things started to get really bent was my rooming situation. This year, I found myself sharing a hotel room with four different women.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that I have quite a few female friends. In fact, at last count my close female friends outnumber my close male ones about two to one. I also have a female roommate and grew up in a household comprised entirely of women for much of my life, so I’m very comfortable around women. But when you’re a man working in the comic book industry and people learn that you’re sharing your hotel room with four attractive young female creators (well, technically one of them was just down for fun and isn’t in the funny book business, but it hardly changes things), you’re going to get some raised eyebrows…and maybe a few slaps on the back and presumptively knowing winks.

Yes, I apparently had a harem this year—a name which the group adopted themselves. Among this small collective were two artists that I’m working with on personal projects of mine, one of whom I had never met in person before. Another was a close friend of mine from the bay area who I once dated and the last was a woman with a Dune tattoo on her back and a full-time job as a bio-mercenary, which may be the most badass sounding career ever created. You throw a little alcohol into the mix and conversations were lively, to say the least.

It also meant that there was a fair amount of emotional drama over the weekend. Hell, there always is when copious amounts of booze is involved, but this weekend seemed like it had been marinated in it. One of my roommates had originally intended on attending the show with her boyfriend of five years, but then needed to make other arrangements when that relationship ended. Another is unhappy in her marriage and uncertain whether she should stick with it. One roommate had a death in her family during Comic-Con weekend. Two members of our group were vegetarians, while one of them kills animals for a living. People were unemployed, uncertain, uneasy and often in various stages of undress. It was like a Tennessee Williams play with Browncoats.

Needless to say, no one was in the mood to stay in at night, least of all me, since everyone knows the real Comic-Con takes place long after the convention hall has closed. However, I also wasn’t content to adhere to my normal practice of rounding up a group for dinner and then immediately making our way to the Hyatt afterwards. Not when there were other options.

Thursday found us at the One Plus Hub mixer before skipping the IDW party (which was loud and had a line to rival Hall H’s) and heading to the Boom! gathering over at the Hilton Bayfront. That was entertaining right up until their happy hour ended and drink prices rose to roughly the equivalent of a down payment on a yacht. On Friday, we were joined for dinner by the lovely Grace Randolph before a few of us headed off to Tr!ckster. I wish I could tell you what Tr!ckster was, but I visited it twice and I still don’t have the faintest idea. It seemed to be an art show and auction combined with a sushi bar that for whatever reason was being held in some sort of wine cellar. And the subject of most of the art was Akira Kurosawa. (That’s true of the night I attended, at least. I’ve been told the art changed each day.) I’d heard that Tr!ckster was the place to be this year, and don’t get me wrong, it was enjoyable and inspiring in its own way, but after spending about an hour wandering around and seeing very few people I knew, I decided I’d be finding something different to do on Saturday night.

That something different was apparently a bar crawl. To be honest, we didn’t start off Saturday night expecting to stumble drunkenly from one side of the Gaslamp to the other. In fact, we started Saturday night off in the pool. The Marriott Marquis has such a wonderful heated pool, and every time I’ve stayed there in the past I’ve always eyed it longingly as I’ve hurried up to my room. This time, a few of us decided to stop and jump in, while the rest stayed up in the room and eyed us longingly. Then it was off to dinner at Maloney’s, which once used to be a pretty decent pub. Unfortunately, it’s now turned into a loud club with an obnoxious wait staff and a smaller menu than I remembered. Dinner turned into drinks and drinks turned into dancing. And dancing turned into all the women in our group getting swarmed by a bunch of bad dancers who were dressed as superheroes. We decided to leave.

Now, leaving a bar when you don’t know where you intend to go is never a good idea, especially when you’re with a group. We knew the plan was to end up at the Hyatt, but none of us were in a hurry to get there too early…so we wandered. We drifted in and out of a few places including the previously mentioned lucha bar and a crowded Irish pub. We had at least one round at each of them, and by the time we finally made it to the Hyatt, we were almost too drunk to take advantage of Archaia’s open tab. But that’s okay. By then, it was well past midnight and the only people who were even close to sober at the Hyatt were the clerks embarrassingly trying to explain their amenities to the late check-ins while what must’ve sounded like a stadium full of drunken football fans were arguing about whether DC’s reboot was a good idea just down the hall. It’s always hard to tell if the headache you have when you leave the Hyatt is from the booze or the noise.

Considering the sort of nights I was having, it’s little wonder I left Comic-Con in something of a daze. I managed to avoid getting sick this year, largely because I spent most of the past few days sleeping. And now that I’ve woken up, I’ve found myself missing my companions and already looking ahead to next year. That’s a first. Usually, Comic-Con kicks my ass and I don’t even want to look at another red lanyard or plastic badge holder until next summer. This year, Comic-Con kicked my ass…and I kinda want more.

I’m not sure what that says about me. Maybe this means it’s time for me to leave this crazy industry. Perhaps I’ve become like a battered spouse who has been abused for so long he thinks he deserves it. Or maybe I’m more like a boxer who realizes the only way to achieve what he’s after is through blood, sweat and pain. Maybe this is my way of saying I’m ready for the next challenge, the next fight. Maybe success lies just ahead.

Either way, it might’ve been brutal at times, but I made it through Comic-Con. And as always, it was a hell of a show.

An (Almost) Great LA Bar

Last Friday, a friend of mine invited me to join her at a bar downtown. She was going there to meet some friends, but what most excited me was that it was a place I’d never been to before, which means that it was undoubtedly a great bar.

Perhaps I should provide a bit of explanation for some of you non-SoCal folk. In Los Angeles, the only great bars are the ones you’ve never been to. Everyone talks about how great the drinking spots are in LA, but I’m yet to meet someone who lives here that will admit to having been to a truly great bar. Most lounges in the city seem to be pretty average. I know a few people who confess to having visited a good bar, but a great one? Well, no one I know has found one yet. We know they’re out there because so many pedigreed authors and journalists have espoused on the libationary excellence to be found atop the wooden counters of dozens of Hollywood, downtown, West Side and Silverlake watering holes. And if someone writes something, it’s automatically true. Everyone knows that. Therefore, there must be great bars in LA. The problem is clearly that we just haven’t yet been to them.

One of these days, this is going to change. There has been many a drive made to a hot, buzzed-about new joint where I envisioned the calls I would make to my friends upon first setting foot inside and discovering that I was at last basking in the glow of greatness.

“Hey Greg, it’s happened.”

“Dammit, Tim. There’s nothing I can do for you. Now, I’m gonna hang up, and you call the cops—”

“No, not that. I found it. I found a great bar.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No, it’s not. This place is great.”

“How many have you had? You’re not drinking Long Islands again, are you? Last time you did that, you convinced yourself that the lounge at Denny’s was the eighth wonder of the world.”

“I’m not at Denny’s and I’m not drunk. I just sat down with a vodka tonic and after the first sip, the only word I could think of to describe the experience was ‘great.’”

“Is that Nick Drake I hear in the background?”

“Sure is. They just finished playing Moxy Fruvous.”

“How long did it take to get the drink?”

“A few minutes.”

“And what kind of vodka did they use? Not Grey Goose, was it?”

“SKYY90.”

“Shit. Okay, I’m on my way. Don’t you dare move, and if I get there and I don’t see at least one woman at the bar drinking actual beer, you’re buying my damn drinks.”

“I was joined by two just before I called you.”

“I’ll be there in time to buy the next round.”

I’ve imagined having conversations like this too many times to recollect, but I’ve never actually had one. Rather, I find I’ve arrived at my destination only to discover that they have an alt-rock band playing or limit their tables to people ordering food or bottle service. Or that their selection of beer consists of Budweiser and a collection of imports of which few besides a BevMo specialty buyer would even be the least bit familiar.

So when my friend invited me to a new bar this weekend, I knew I was going to a great spot. The reviews were promising. The photos looked intriguing. It was surrounded by warehouses, lofts and neglected studio space, so the atmosphere was encouraging. I was prepared, for the first time since I became of age, to have a truly great night of drinking in LA.

And I came damn close. The bar was mid-sized and open-air, with much of the seating and mingling areas actually outside. This works well for LA because pretension tends to thrive in dark, enclosed spaces. It’s hard to seem full of yourself when you’re at risk of being shit on by a pigeon at any moment. Also, the bar served most of their drinks in mason jars, which are about as suave to sip from as a bed pan. Perhaps in other cities this would be a negative, but in LA, this is medicine that is very much needed. The crowd was a nice mix and seemed pretty friendly, and best of all, the band was miked at a level that didn’t require you to conduct your conversations in semaphore.

The place even looked pretty snazzy. Part Victorian, part speakeasy, part Artemis Gordon dream house, it was hard not to feel pretty charmed by the whole thing. And charmed takes you a good part of the way to great. In fact, if I’d stuck to one of my usual drinks, I may very well have experienced greatness. Unfortunately, emboldened by the old-time bluegrass the band was playing and perhaps driven by an eagerness to put this promising juke joint to the ultimate after-hours test, I decided to try one of their specialty drinks.

I quickly scanned their drink menu, completely clueless as to what any of them were. Asking the bartender was out of the question. If you have to ask what’s in your drink, then as a patron you become lame and a great bar doesn’t have lame patrons. I didn’t want to find myself as the reason this promising bar missed the mark, so I decided to wing it and order the drink that sounded most appropriate for me. And for a comic book editor, there was really only one appropriate drink.

I almost missed it at first because it was the very last drink on the menu, and when I saw it, I had to scratch my head since it seemed thematically at odds with the historic kitsch the place was clearly aiming for.

The Stan Lee.

I had to go with Stan the Man. No question or doubt about it. For a comic book professional and lifelong Southern Californian, nothing could be better than sipping a drink called the Stan Lee in the company of cool friends in a charming cocktail house that looked like something from “Oh Brother Where Art Thou.” This could not only be my first great LA bar experience – it could be the perfect LA bar experience.

My drink decision made, I quickly pushed my way to the bar and ordered it. I knew something was off the minute I saw the glass. As I mentioned, most drinks in this place were served in mason jars. So when I saw him plink down the petite stemmed glass more appropriate for drinking dessert wine at a yacht club, I knew we were heading for trouble. I was so focused on the damn glass that I missed half of what went into the drink. I looked up in just enough time to see him pouring in what looked like three shots worth of grenadine.

Well, maybe it’ll look blood red, I thought to myself. Perhaps they’ll top it with Blue Curacao and get a classic Spider-Man thing going with it. But looking at that dainty glass, I knew there was no way in hell they could pull it off.

The shaker was capped, the bartender gave it a quick shake and cracked it open, and out it came.

Pink.

Goddammit. Why the hell is a drink that’s called the Stan Lee colored pink? Not a single key character in the Marvel universe is pink. I suppose it’s possible that Stan the Man is partial to pink drinks, but I can’t quite picture that, and if I can’t picture something, it’s not true. Everyone knows that.

With a flick of his wrist, the bartender dropped something in the glass. Something that looked like a candied raspberry.

“That’s $13.”

“You’re kidding me. It looks like something my four-year-old niece would serve at a tea party. I could probably down that thing in half a gulp.”

“Sorry, man. But that’s the Stan Lee.”

I guess that explains why I’ve always been more of a DC guy. I paid the bartender, who looked a lot less cool with a pink drink in front of him, then snatched up the tiny glass, taking great care to mutter that it wasn’t for me as I walked away from the bar. I think I noticed a couple of girls in vests whispering to each other and pointing as I walked away.

Now, it had taken me about ten minutes to order my drink, so if I returned to my friend without a cocktail in hand, it would have required a story about why I decided not to order one when I had left her for the sole purpose of doing so. I wasn’t feeling particularly inspired at the moment, so downing the drink and returning to her empty handed save for a clever story was out of the question. Making matters worse was that this particular friend of mine also seems to find my enjoyment of tiki drinks to be the most hilarious thing since Steve Martin sang about King Tut on Saturday Night Live. I knew as soon as she saw me walking up with a pink drink that I’d never hear the end of it.

No sooner did I spot her in the crowd than I caught her eyeing my drink. Instinctively, I responded defensively.

“Don’t ask me what I’m drinking.”

“What the hell is that thing?”

“It’s called the Stan Lee. Does this look like it would have anything to do with Stan Lee to you? It’s pink.”

“Put an umbrella in it and you should be right at home.”

“I think I’m sticking with beer after this.”

And with that, the bar fell from great to good. For you should never have to stick to beer at a great bar.

But it’s okay. The rest of the evening was actually very enjoyable despite my sour note at the bar. The Stan Lee was consumed quickly, and it didn’t take long for me to regain my composure after ordering something that looked like a wine glass full of Strawberry Quik. And while I did notice quite a few obscure imports on tap, they had Newcastle, which is like the full house of bar beers. It’s hard to go wrong with it. I wonder how pleasant the outdoor experience may be in winter when rain and cold temperatures set in, but for a Friday night in autumn, this little spot was all right. Hell, it was better than all right. It really was good, and a good bar is pretty decent for LA. In fact, a night spent at a good bar in LA is about as great as it gets.