Bloop

So I’m going to the San Diego Comicon later this month, right, and I’m thinking “Hey, maybe some people would want to know that I’m going and how to find me during official times.”  Then the guy that I’m looking at while speaking this out loud asks me if I’m going to order anything because I’m holding up the line and there a re a shit-ton of people behind me at two in the morning who really want doughnuts.

This past year wasn’t really spent working on things that I can show, however,  so I had my reservations about going.  What the hell sort of stuff HAVE I been working on, you might ask, probably in an incredibly tactless manner thanks to your having been raised by a computer that never taught you how to interact with flesh and blood human beings outside of a webcam situation.  Well, I won’t get into much of that in this post, so maybe I’ll save that mess for later.  I can’t even tell you right now what small thing I have that ultimately made me feel not so bad about going this year.  Everything’s very mysterious, kids.  Ah, well…maybe that other stuff will pop up sooner or later.

Anyhow, CLICK HERE to see  the schedule for when I’ll be signing at the SLG booth.  Keep an eye on that page because my signing times might change!

I can’t say how final that schedule is, as I know J.R. Goldberg would love to do a few signings without me.  Not because she hates me, mind you, but because of THE CURSE.

What’s The Curse, you ask, very likely while chewing on red vines and not closing your mouth?  The Curse, my chewy friend, is the horrific plight of any poor bastard that is seated directly in the path of the line that forms when I’m doing signings.  Let me give you a few examples of a few things I witnessed Ms. Goldberg experience last time we were paired up for signings.

First, lemme set up the scene, paint a visual for you to better comprehend this thing.  Picture me sitting.  Easy enough, right?  Now, to my left is J.R, and next to her is the esteemed Ethan Nicolle signing his Chumble Spuzz books.  Ethan once murdered a man, stared down the sheriff, blood still dripping from his hands, and walked away to enjoy a can of soup in from of the TV, but that’s not important right now.

So, as has been the way from time immemorial, the line come in from the left of me, wrapping around a caribou until it is killed by hunters.  This means that the people sitting to the left of me have to stare uncomfortably at the line that smiles back just as uncomfortable until they get to me, where the people in line now uncomfortably get something signed while I, uncomfortable, pray that they won’t say something with the word “doom” or “piggies” in it.  Some comedy genius, having read this post, then gets in line for the sole purpose of saying “doom” and “piggies” because of how ironic it would be while I can spot them a mile away, slowly loading the bullets into my gun, wondering if I will use it on them or myself to end this hell on earth of mine.

But I digress!  The point is, the people sitting next to me have to endure some pretty horrible stuff, and it makes me feel terrible.  What kind of stuff?  How about having fans exclaim that they HAVE to buy something, and then point out how awesome a poster is, a poster that, to them, is some new work of mine.  I smile , agree that it is indeed an awesome poster, but that it is the work of J.R. Goldberg, and gesture to the very creator sitting next to me.  “Oh.” they say back, put the poster down, and then pick something else up asking if maybe THAT item was something I had done.

That happened a lot, and though I can’t relate to it, I can understand the thinking behind it.  I just think it’s awful.  Why the hell wouldn’t you buy what your eyes told you was a cool piece of work, in this case it was the Head Full of Bees poster that Goldberg did based on a story of mine from Jellyfist.  That scene played over and over again, with Ethan getting a whole mess of it as well, his eyes barely containing his hatred for some of the people standing in the line that blocked access to him for anyone that actually wanted to get something signed by his amazing hands with fingers.

Another popular one, this one directed at J.R. and myself more so than at Ethan, was for some giggling goblin to, in between random  squeaks,  would ask if J.R. was my “girlfriend”.  This question is generally reserved for use by female fans, most often wearing some combination of neon green and purple and black, a color triumvirate designed to open portals to hell specifically for my eyes, who don’t seem to understand how inappropriate it is to ask things like that to total and complete strangers.  A few seats over, someone is asking another artist about their work, and I am fielding questions about whether or not the lady sitting next to me is my girlfriend.  Besides just being an awful question, it’s an absurd one at that, as everyone knows I am married to the sea, and to space, and to all the space seas.  Read a book, guys.

Hey, tooth, are you that jerk's girlfriend?!

I get a lot of “poops” for hating my fans, but really, you know who’s spreading those rumors or actually has no life so as to be able to devote time to spreading “poops” like that?  People that have very likely been chastised (that’s right, I’m like an old schoolmarm) for doing or saying something stupid or just outright rude at these things.  What happens is I’ll say something along the lines of “Hey, wear pants, you disgusting idiot.” and next thing you know this pantless idiot is on the “inter” net, talking about what a dick I am.  Like I always say, these people have absolutely no idea what a genuine dick I am, and so their wild accusations are offensive.

The reality of it, however, is that most everyone that I’ve met at things like this are pretty nice, even if they’re not Australian (they were super nice and each one of them had one enormous body part, like one guy would have a huge ear, and a girl would have monstrous gums) but I’ve accrued a particularly potent kind of terror that gets in line and tends to make ruin the image for the rest of them.  This year we’ll be burying them without their heads to ensure they do not rise again to sing the doom song at the top of their lungs at future cons.

An actual Australian

So, yeah, instead of hiring someone to play me at a signing, this year I’m actually going to go, so be kind, rewind, and try not to touch me unless you’re an air conditioning robot.

I’ll update again if I hear anything else about where else I might be signing, and of course, I will keep a journal of my days while at the convention itself.  I’ll probably be using Twitter a bit as well so you can know when I am biting into sandwiches and drinking from dirty fountains WHILE I’m still doing it!