7/21/03: 3:45 AM: I found the lost ones this weekend.

Shambling along with glassy eyes and homemade costumes honoring multi-billion dollar entertainment properties, they discover plateaus of acceptance in the shimmer of lightsabers and the sandy flipping of pages. Roaring streams of dollar bills flowed from their hands into corporate coffers and starving artists.

Looking around, I sometimes caught glimpses of yesterday's dreamers, tethered to tedious reality, they no longer tug at the chains of their experience, the bindings of the status quo. Once upon a time, they too could find new splendor in pressing lead to paper and inventing worlds. Now, battered by the politics of pride and the economics of entertainment, they shuffle from booth to booth, hawking hand-me-down ideas and grousing of glory days, or finding fortune in animation and gazing ruefully back at the field that nurtured -- and then in many cases abandoned -- them like a well-meaning but poorly informed ex-wife.

I walked amongst them, a prophet of rage cloaked in smiles and handshakes. Neither experienced enough to be one of yesterday's dreamers nor as forsaken as the lost ones, I found people walking along and seeking absolution in creativity. Brothers built from love, even bad ass mofos cloaked in culture and broken hopes. As I walked widened aisles, flanked by solemn Jedi warriors and Themyscrian royalty, I was surprised and gladdened to see more dark faces, more kinky hair, as both consumers and producers of art and commerce. Diversity is slowly creeping into the stodgy old world of comics, because it was bleeding so profusely from gaping wounds, only truly new blood could hope to stem the damage. We's comin' into the big house, massa, whether you like it or not.

One friend called Comicon "spring break for the socially retarded," and I can't argue that the lost ones revel in the ability to be alpha dogs, for once in their life. It was wistfully fun to watch them believe the jocularity from paid models was genuine. The glee they experience over Frazetta artifacts or plastic simulacra of corny cartoon characters. In their own doomed way, they're all so glorious. Simple pleasures, i suppose.

As many in striding the line between pro and fan, I had a rough weekend. In three days (I rolled into America's Finest City [tm] at about 11PM on Thursday night), I pressed the flesh and made nice, exhausting at least three weeks worth of my "dont curse a muthaf***a out" emotional inventory. I nearly bankrupted myself, expecting to eat poorly and rarely for the next week (a check I believed that I needed showed up in the mail a day after I left, and as a result, the only actual purchase I made all weekend outside of room, board and my admission was the new Solid anthology, available now). The belt clip on my cell phone broke late Saturday, leaving me without the basics of twenty-first century communication. My legs are refusing to speak with me, and my feet are filing for emancipation, after being forced to walk, back and forth, twelve blocks from the 'con to the Motel 6 at least seven times. As planned, I crashed the Marvel suite, which turned out to be as easy as finding an affable looking white guy and sending him to ask a question. Much easier than crashing the Grammy awards, and a lot less prep work. I drank a ridiculously expensive virgin Madras outside at the Hyatt (mental note -- bring my own juice next year ... hell, I'm bringing my cooler) as Jill Thompson and Brian Azzarello chatted mere feet away (I was happy that we settled our beef from the prior year, and Jill looked quite fetching).

I wouldn't change a thing.

Here's a brief bullet point list of the things I bothered to remember ...

• Marc Alessi's snipe at Image as a "loose confederation." What's his beef with Image, did he get a misprinted copy of Shadowhawk years ago or something?
• Having another weird conversation with Jim Valentino -- I always feel like there's so much more going on than I'm aware of, but I can never find out what.
• DC announcing Morrison, Loeb and Sale exclusive, bringing in Weiringo and Waid -- DC's like a silent freakin' assassin, like a relentless glacier. Patient, careful, indefatigable, crafty.
• Finally getting something into the hands of Code 6 and hoping for a snifter of the red Kool-aid. I don't hate, I inundate.
• Shaking hands with Paul Levitz, Mike Carlin and Bob Shreck in a matter of minutes. I even got to thank Levitz for The Great Darkness Saga, which I'll admit doesn't stand up as well as I believed it would, but is still damned fine comics.
• I met Jamar!
• Alessi's snipe at Waid as "alienating" comic book companies, implying a bad break on Ruse. Mmm, I hope The Beat over at The Pulse, or that wonderful bastard Rich Johnston at CBR will have something on all that.
• Never finding Theresa Focarile, despite numerous attempts and standing next to C.B. Cebulski (who figured out I was a crasher pretty early, I believe, but didn't care) for at least twenty minutes. Dammit!
• Those 501st guys kind of scare me. Putting the "fanatic" in "fan," yowza. I did think that seeing a clone trooper finally, and a pretty solid Thrawn, was cool.
• Hanging out with Denys Cowan, Arvell Jones, Dwayne McDuffie and Ron Wilson -- wow. If you don't know who they are, you seriously need to check the technique.
• Seeing Keenan Ivory Wayans and Hulk Hogan, walking around like normal people on the 'con floor, while Quentin Tarantino was ushered through the back passages of the Convention Center, and even Kevin Smith lookalikes could draw a crowd, blocking foot traffic.
• Speaking French with a comics studio head from Quebec. I so rarely get to speak French.
• Cursing really loudly when I discovered that the wireless internet service I had on Earthlink is somehow still available, but only in San Diego and Denver. Dammit!
• The goofy Sunday session of Comic Book Law School. That guy was funny, even though he kind of kept digressing away from the point.
• Realizing an hour after I got home that I accidentally completely flirted with the wife of the guy who makes Booty Babes -- oops, I didn't see a ring. I'm a relentless flirt, because it often gets me free stuff (among other possible benefits), but I see now why it seemed to be having such mixed results. My bad, dawg.
• Getting lost in the eyes of no fewer than four gorgeous women (one of whom turned out to be married as noted above, one of whom is way too much like my ex-wife, one of whom makes a living out of being unattainable). Good lord, it was a sea of amazing, smart, well-read women at this 'con.
• Getting drinks with the makers of Shadows and Eric J from Rex Mundi, as well as some other very groovy people.
• Laughing it up with a number of the Moviepoopshoot.com guys.
• Running into the inimitable John Layman and the illustrious and praiseworthy Tony Isabella a whole lot of times on the convention floor.
• Talking women and life and comics with Dave Walker of BadAzzMofo in the food court of Horton Plaza.