S.P.A.C.E. Diary:

04.03.04

Dear Moleskine:

I am live from S.P.A.C.E. 2004. It turns out they seated me next to Jason Trimmer, who does Chronic Apathy, and is also on the Cerebus Yahoo mailing list. I am selling a package of all my currently in-print books (Apophenia #1-2, Cowboy Actor #1-2, The Stork #1 [don't ask why I still have copies of this]) for $5.00. Two sales as of 10:52am. Oops, more customers!

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Skipped ahead of Margaret in line to get Cerebus #77 signed by Sim and Gerhard. I didn't bother to ask all the people in line behind her. Dave thanked me for having not started my reply to his latest letter, but then proceeded to engage me in a conversation about the Founding Fathers -- perhaps trying to suss out whatever I might be planning to write next in advance. Gerhard turned to listen intently, with a big grin on his face as I began to speak. He (Dave) is much more... compact than I expected. Small hands. I gave him and Gerhard copies of Apophenia #2 before thanking them both and darting back to my table. Dave moved fans along with the efficiency of an embedded controller designed and marketed by AM Research of Rosevile, California. He was the Candidate.

"My set is amazing, it even smells like a street"

-- David Bowie Candidate, 1974

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I just paged through my entire portfolio for a guy, and then he didn't even look at the books I had for sale. He thought one of the half-completed drawings of JFK from Cowyboy Actor #3 was Bill Clinton. I'd just remarked to Amy about that same drawing earlier in the week, making the same observation. JFK with white hair looks very much like Clinton (though it's possible I just can't draw). It's the wrinkles, I think. Explained the issue and Operation Northwoods to this same high school student, who seemed absolutely shocked. He asked if I got the information from the Internet.

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Observed the 2004 Gene Day Memorial Prize ceremony, and accompanying Cerebus DVD short put together by Bryan Erdy. Sim the politician, as he presented the awards. I think he must have observed public speakers closely. The rhthym and meter he uses seems deliberately paced. I would not relish public speaking. Maybe he doesn't either.

Met Glenn Brewer and picked up all six issues of Askari Hodari shortly before the presentation.

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Hours go by. Selling some books. Then buying some books. Some people come by and try to sell books to me. Some people come by and purchase books from me. People seem resistant to trading. I have left my table too many times and for too long. I'm not getting everything I want to get. This is like being locked in the trunk of a car with four TVs which are somehow left on with the volume all the way up, pressing right against my face. It's gratifying when people return to my table after buying comics from me and want to talk about them.

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Waiting for six o'clock as the afternoon starts to thin out like chewing gum being blown into a bubble.

Someone left money for both issues of Cowboy Actor (which they took while I was away from my table). I do not have a running count of what I've sold, so there's no way to tell if anyone stole books. I sarcastically wonder what they'd yield at a pawn shop.

Amy took photographs of Sim. Josh Flowers had offered to snap a shot of me with Dave, but then I jumped ahead in line and missed the opportunity.

Ted Haycraft came up and bought all five of my books. Bragged about having his name mentioned in Cerebus #300. I did not take the bait. I did not see David W. Johnson anywhere around, though for several days leading up to the show, I had anticipated that I might (and weathered a spike on the radar when Haycraft showed up). Haycraft claimed he couldn't remember if we'd met or not. I saw him eying me previously, in the other room, trying to stare at my nametag without me noticing. I finally saw him at my table on my way back from the big room and rushed over to greet him. Endless cycles.

Not sure where the Cerebus Yahoos are going for dinner, but L nny promised to come tell me soon as he finds out.

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It has been related to me that the Cerebus group is meeting in the lobby at six o'clock for a group photo with Dave and Gerhard. Amy caught a pretty good one of Dave and Gerhard earlier that I will try to get her to submit to Following Cerebus (they've requested any decent hi-res shots that attendees manage to snap for an article that is to appear in a future issue).

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At least two groups of people are running around with video equipment, interviewing creators. I believe the high school student I spoke with earlier is affiliated with one of the groups. I really hope they avoid me. It's likely they won't. It's what I get for being so damn good looking.

A short while later, and it looks like they're going to avoid me.

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It's almost five thirty and many people are starting to take down their tables. I think I may as well, if someone doesn't stop by --

Well, someone stopped by. Now I'm taking down the table. Five thirty two or thereabouts.

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Nine thirty-six. Now in the hotel bar/restaurant waiting for Cerebus Yahoo group folks to show up. Amy is staying in the room to read comics we bought today. Sim is here and is still surrounded by a small crowd of people (even after most of the earlier crowd has cleared out after finishing the dinner he and Gerhard are footing the bill for). I find myself wondering if the exhibitors who have publicly vilified him are eating on his tab.

I did not go into town for dinner with the mailing list people. But they will theoretically filter back into the bar after they return. A waitress just told me the restaurant closes down in twenty minutes. I'll have to move into the drinking area.

Drumming my pen on the table. Not long ago I took the mother of all craps back in the hotel room. Probably lost five pounds. And here I am writing about it because this paragraph was starting to run thin on content. Wonder of wonders! "Making room." I should have stopped writing a page and a half ago.

Wonder. I wonder how long they'll suffer me drinking ice water at the bar. I am inexperienced with bars. It will probably take me several weeks to hand-scrub the cigarette-smoke membrane which has grown like a new skin over my clothing. I think the pages of this journal are already yellowing.

Not sure how many copies I sold today, but I'm pretty sure I at least broke even on the fees for my table and the ad I ran in the program book. Overall I think reaction was positive (i.e., "good"). Several people came up to me after they'd had a chance to leaf through the books they bought from me and said that they liked them. I, of course, cock my head and am never quite sure what to make of that sort of obvious baiting. Are they trying to make me crack? Challenging me to a fist-fight? Would screaming in their face that my work is none of their goddam business be uncouth? "Learn to take a compliment."

The Cerebus Group itself is a collection of (mostly) adult comic book enthusiasts (I almost said "comic book nerds -- such as myself," but that might not play well) (oops) who seem to have long ago applied the finishing touches to their personal social technique. I speak of them in the collective, which isn't really fair. What I mean to point out is simply that they are many of them older than me. Many of them veterans of multiple conventions of this nature, and thus many of them (apparently) more comfortable than I am aggressively projecting their meticulously assembled personalities. Well, everyone complains about what they haven't got. I'm an armchair socialite.

I've completely lost track now of whether Sim has left the restaurant; or whether any mailing list people have shown up; or even in fact what time it -- oh. Ten oh four. The restaurant should be closed, but here I sit. A waitress just came around and is now starting to sweep the room, which is really pretty filthy now that she mentions it. Lift my legs, scoot out my chair. All done.

I'm burning through pages in this notebook at an alarming rate. This is because I'm writing in larger print than normal, and I think I am tipsy from all this tap water. Oh, that's not a good reason? Maybe then it's just because I think it should look like I'm doing something while I wait. I refuse to sit with a blank stare on my face, gazing into the television in the bar. Besides, someone might actually try to speak to me. Mortals!

Tomorrow is the drive back home. Another five-and-a-half hours and twenty-thousand dollars in gas. And there are people here who drove further than me.

Ten twelve. Are the mailing list people going to appear? I was just vacuumed. Again. Doris just apologized for bumping my glass of water. Telephone calls in the hotel room are fifty cents and Amy is using NetZero via dial-up to look at pictures of S.P.A.C.E.-goers from last year.

Sim is behind me at the cash register, paying a sizable tab for the S.P.A.C.E. creators' dinner. Earlier he remarked that he was paying for food and not alcohol.

Ten Fifteen. I have fast handwriting (which is evidenced by the fact that I just filled a page with text in three minutes).

I have probably forfeited the chance to bullshit with Sim. But who needs bullshit? A couple of times during interactions with the group we made eye contact, and the politician-veneer cracked a bit as he regarded some comment I made. I don't feel any great imperative to soak up his physical presence, in person, or to, like, grab him and tear pieces off his shirt. He's just a guy. A guy who did a good comic book, and we exchange ideas in the post, but ultimately beyond shaking his hand, what I am I going to do? Take his wallet? I figure if he wants to come over and chat with me he will.

"Too much talking. Not enough sidewalk chalking."

-- W.C. Fuckin' Wit Uh House Party, 1996

Speaking of which where are these mailing list gonzos. None are present.

There is an (well, what appears to be an) early Twentieth-Century poster/advertisement (reproduction, almost certainly) for "Cristal Eau de Table" on the wall directly behind where we sat last night in the restaurant. I just noticed it. Cristal. I remember reading an interview with Ice T many years ago where he served notice that real rich people drink Cristal, etc. This was before it had become a staple of hip hop culture. A white guy deep into underground rap once made fun of me for putting in an Ice T tape at my old job.

I wonder if I just missed them. It was several hours until I made it back down here. I need to stop drinking glasses of water now or there's going to be trouble. I don't want to leave my journal on the table here, but I also don't want to take this pen that I tend to absent-mindedly chew on from time to time into the men's room. I suppose I could just put it in my pocket. No need to narrate taking a piss, even if it does look like it may last for the equivalent of four pages.

All right, so it's a little strange sitting in a bar hearing Dave expound upon various topics, very "Marty"-like, to a bunch of "guys."

By the way, Dave and Gerhard left. They did not say anything and I did not say anything. See ya, fellows.