WHERE’S WALDO: A Blog for Loose Cannons in the Pop Culture Wars
04/07
Comic Con. Dragon Con. Fan Expo Canada. Emerald City Comic Con. Wizard World. WonderCon. What’s it all about? Every major city seems to have one now. Cons are big business. It was estimated that San Diego’s Comic Con generated $488.4 million in revenues in a three-year period between 2013 and 2015. But what is the attraction? What is the Wildfire that draws the fans like moths? What compels them to undertake pilgrimages of hundreds of miles in Toyota minivans, what is the impetus for cobbling together homemade Wolverine costumes from egg cartons and electrical tape, what is the Force that pries open wallets and purses and drains them of hard-earned wages? What exactly is the big Con?
These are the questions, dear reader, that have converted me from bystander to fully-immersed participant in this early 21st Century cultural phenomenon.
And so I found myself trekking from my adopted home in Austin to the town of Harlingen in deepest south Texas, venue of the inaugural RGV Comic Con: Con Found It. I know nothing of Harlingen; according to the brochure there are picturesque palm-lined streets, a historic downtown district, and an Arts & Heritage museum. There is a dramatic geographical and cultural divide you traverse just in the approximate 80 mile drive down I-35 from Austin to San Antonio. San Antonio is the gateway to South Texas, as distinct a region from the rest of the state as the Basque Country is to Spain. San Antonio is a city of Hispanic culture, a military city, a heavy metal city, a city where people flock to the Riverwalk on weekends to dispose of their disposable income and gawk at the Alamo, that so-called Shrine of Texas Liberty which sits in the shadow of that Shrine of Unbridled Consumerism, the River City Mall. Austin is nestled in the Texas Hill Country, a blue island in a sea of red voters, a hippie city, a punk city, the city where Willie Nelson led the country Outlaw movement, the home of Austin City Limits and SXSW. Though it was named after Texas Revolutionary War hero Stephen F. Austin, no major military engagements occurred there. If you walked up and down 6th Street and surveyed hip Austinites, they might inform you that the most significant battle fought in Austin was the infamous riot at the punk rock club Raul’s, touched off when Phil Tolstead, lead singer for Austin’s outrageous Huns yelled “Eat Death, Scum!” at a riot control officer and kissed him on his lips.
South of San Antonio, you can expect to be addressed in Spanish as a matter of course. As you drive past flat, little agricultural towns where the tallest buildings are grain silos, you’ll see acres of furrowed fields and white-steepled churches in the distance. (Side note: I never really “got” religion. One time shortly after Dad passed Mum dragged me to a service at a Methodist church in Putney. In the front was a stained glass window with an image I’ll never forget: Jesus with a jet of flame shooting out of his head, holding a scepter in one hand on which a happy looking bluebird sat seemingly impaled, his other hand clutching what appeared to be a baked bun. I asked Mum “Is that a hamburger Jesus is eating, then?” and she just told me to shush.) Here in south Texas, it is not sufficient for churches to be modest refuges for quiet contemplation of the mysteries of the universe; they are prefabricated monuments to a metaphysical monarch, their rooftops proclaiming the legend “Jesus is Lord” in letters large enough to read from the highway. This land belongs to Christians. This land belongs to farmers. This is where I am today.
Taking the “If you build it, they will Con,” rationale to heart, picturesque and historic Harlingen, Texas erected the state-of-the-art Stinson Events Center and, before the paint had even dried on its walls, booked its first major fan convention. The inaugural RGV Comic Con will be the venue for my debut into this brave and strange new world. Why not a bigger, more prestigious event you ask? I felt that a major event in a large metropolis would be too impersonal; individuality would be lost in a crush of humanity and corporate omnipresence. I am here primarily to observe the individual, after all.
The journey has not been without its perils. As I zipped through a one-stoplight, speed-trap town no one had been courteous enough to build a freeway over, fighting freeway hypnosis with the aid of a Big Gulp and the Sirius 70’s hard rock station, a torrential storm struck. I seized the wheel in a 10 and 2 death-grip, but before I knew it my car spun out and I found myself suddenly absolutely still in a road-side ditch, Black Sabbath still blasting at fish-killing decibels from my speakers. (Note to self: I have resolved to discover the meaning of life by repeated listens to Sabbath Bloody Sabbath, not based upon any empirical or even anecdotal evidence that great truths can be discerned from such study, but rather based upon a gut feeling driven by certain chord progressions and the way that Ozzy Osbourne sounds wise beyond his years on tracks like “A National Acrobat,” years before his conversion to a “reality t.v.” pod person.) My car sustained some minor damage. I was forced to lay over for the night.
The event was well underway by the time I arrived the following day. A motley caravan of hobbits, steam-punks, Jedi, Avengers, Gothic Lolitas, otakus and post-apocalyptic zombies paraded up and down past tables and booths laden with collectable limited edition comics, custom hand-crafted action figures, and original art prints by hip manga artists. At the entrance I was accosted by what seemed to members of some cult, all dressed in white, each with a lit cigarette. One held up a tablet that read “Don’t Waste Your Breath.” Clever.
I found my way to my assigned booth. Miles was nowhere to be seen, but I knew he was here since his laptop was set up and his browser open to his Facebook page…
“Waldo Borg has entered the building!” announced Miles in his gruff Liverpudlian accent.
He strode up to the booth, wearing baggy gym shorts and a faded Richard Marx tee-shirt, his full black beard fastened by an ornate gold clip into a point halfway down his chest.
“What in the sweet name of Odin’s eye-patch is that thing?” asked Waldo, peering at Miles through his round wire-rim frames.
“It’s Dwarvish beard jewelry,” answered Miles, beaming. “I bought it just now from that hottie in the tie-dye caftan dress over there. I think she might be sweet on me.”
“You don’t say.”
“I’ll be over later to see if she’s up for a drink. She has cute mate who might be interested.”
“I’m not interested in dating.”
“I’m not asking you to date her. I’m thinking you should shag her.”
“Well that’s a relief!”
“You should think about dating again, though. Frost on the metaphorical pumpkin and that.”
“Your colloquialisms never fail to baffle me. By the way, did you un-friend me?”
“No, man. You’re the Paul Lynde in my Hollywood Square of friends. What makes you think I de-friended you?”
Waldo shrugged and glanced disinterestedly away.
Miles closed his laptop.
“Shame you got stranded last night. I found the best place for fajitas.”
“Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t make it in last night, come to think of it. Never mind fajitas. How are we set up at the hotel?”
“Set up for what?”
“You know. Distilled fermented beverages. Spirits. Booze. Liquor.”
“Liquor. You ever notice that “Liquor” is the monster name for beverages? It’s not just liquid, it’s…LIQUOR!!!”
“Well?”
“You will be pleased. Hey partner, it looks like you got shit on your jacket.”
“It’s not shit. I got mud all over it last night when I got stuck on the road. I threw it in a washer at a coin laundry this morning and it came out with this weird brownish-orange stain on the sleeve here.”
“How did that happen? Can’t you wash it out with lime juice or something?”
“Who do I look like, Mrs. Fixit? I’m asking the laundry to replace it. It was my best jacket, fuck’s sake. I wore it just for this event. The things I do for love. I mean, money.”
“Why are you wearing a jacket anyway? It’s like 94 degrees out there. And why didn’t you just get a hotel in Alfalfaville…”
“Falfurrias.”
“…instead of sleeping in your car?”
“I’m on a budget.”
“Is this what this is all about? Have you sold any work recently?”
“I’m busy, man. I have a forthcoming graphic novel that will soon be…coming forth. I’ve got a whole slew of projects. I’ve got…I’m in mid-slew, that’s what.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t say it again.”
“Say what?”
“Don’t say anything about working with Sal at Firecracker again. There’s not a solitary bastard chance in Hell that will happen. The things that company did to me -- I was so naïve. Somewhere Sal’s attorneys are laughing so hard they piss themselves every time a Headbanger graphic novel is published.”
“I ran into Sal in a diner in Glasgow a couple of weeks ago. He was cool. Asked me what I was up to. Seemed interested in what you might be working on. Well, he didn’t actually ask what you were working on, he just…I just kind of got a sense…well, he didn’t actually ask me what I was up to either. You know what? Never mind.”
“Uh huh. Where is his booth? I can’t endure that smug thing he does with his eyebrows. You know that when I walked in just now he looked at me and cleared his throat? Not even one of those Excuse YOU throat clearings. It was one of those What is this Unspeakable Filth that DARES enter my presence? throat clearings.”
“Maybe he thought you had shit on your jacket.”
“Nyuk Nyuk.”
“That’s his station over there. You might even be able to catch a glimpse of those eyebrows once all those people in line to see him step out of the way.”
“Grrrr.”
“Here, something to take your mind off Sal until we get our first customer.”
Miles handed a sheet of paper to Waldo.
“What’s this?”
“A quiz.”
“Pass.”
“There’s a $2,000 prize.”
“Give me something to write with.”
“Here you go,” said Miles, fishing a felt-tip pen out of his shorts’ pocket.
“Wow, some of these questions are pretty hard.”
“Hey, the Pill Buggy is here. The 1974 original from The Adventures of Pillbug and Larva. And two official BBC T.V. Tardises. Tardi. I got a funny selfie of me humping a Dalek. I’m making it my profile pic.”
“Lovely.”
“I’ve seen some pretty awesome costumes, too. There was a perfect Golden Age Hawkman, a Judy Jetson, a Doctor Shrinker complete with shrink ray…”
“Did he have a dwarf henchman?”
“No.”
“Fail.”
“There was a Vegetable Man.”
“Where is he?”
“Getting an autograph from Sal. Also, swear-to-God there was some guy dressed as the Mystic Seer from The Twilight Zone. He’s standing in a big red box with his head sticking out, red face paint, horns, the whole bit.”
“Are there any girls who came as Harley Quinn? The suspense is killing me.”
“Your enthusiasm is positively contagious. I may have to quarantine myself from you. Hey, I wonder where I can get a piñata like that?”
“Huh?” asked Waldo, looking up from the quiz sheet.
Miles gestured upwards. A dozen colorful piñatas hung suspended like massive spiders, arranged equidistantly around the center of the domed ceiling of the convention center.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Deadpool piñata before. Yet I don’t feel particularly enriched by the experience. By the way, keep an eye out for this no-neck security guard. He was following me around giving me the stink-eye.”
“Which one?”
“He was over there by the table with all the custom anime figures. Looks like the Illustrated Man. You’ll recognize him when you see him.”
Miles stretched his massive form to full height and scanned the crowd.
“That’s strange.”
What?”
“You see that little guy with the black helmet coming this way?”
“Yeah. What of it?”
“He passed earlier and I noticed him walk way over to the Power Rangers autograph area seconds ago. And yet here he comes again, same direction, exactly as before. It’s like Déjà vu. A glitch in the Matrix, as it were.”
“So he ran back. Or maybe there’s two of them. Never mind that now. I’m starving. I didn’t have time to stop for breakfast. Be a good Miles and fetch me a sandwich, burrito, pizza slice, or whatever they’re serving in the food area. And a Diet Coke.”