From: [f--eh--d] at [panix.com] (Elayne Wechsler-Chaput)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.comics.misc
Subject: Elayne's San Diego Con Report
Date: 15 Jul 1996 00:09:04 -0400

             Elayne's Comic-Con International/San Diego Report

WARNING:  This report contains far over the minimum daily recommended 
allowance of self-indulgent tripe.  In addition, the more sensitive and 
empathetic among you may wish to hide the razor blades.

Part I
======

"Well did she make you cry
Make you break down
Shatter your illusions of love..."

After having spent the night of the 2nd at my parents' house, with no air
conditioning ('nuff said), and two thankfully uneventful flights from
Newark via St. Louis on Wednesday, July 3, we're met at the San Diego
airport that afternoon by our friend Bruce Smith, who after about a dozen
e-mails back and forth still doesn't seem to grasp that we're here for a
comic book convention, which to us (well, me, at least) is a working
weekend, not a vacation, and most of our days and evenings are already
planned.  He keeps suggesting we take in a local fair, or head down to
Tijuana, or visit the Zoo or Sea World... we keep explaining and
clarifying.  We do spend some time together shopping for the evening's
party, buying another battery for our camcorder which we'll turn out not
to need anyway, and eating a late lunch at the Seaport Village (*very*
similar to the one in Mystic, CT, I thought), which is fun except that I'm
starting to notice it hurts to walk... Bruce drops us off at the
convention center, where it takes us about 30 seconds to get our plastic
con bags and such over at Pro Reg.  We see nobody we know. 

Wednesday evening is our by-now-traditional Night Before The Con Party. 
In attendance are Terri Boyle, Mark Coale, Johanna Draper, Tom Galloway,
David Goldfarb, Kevin Gould, Michael Grabois, Lance Gueck, Rich Johnston,
Rick Jones, Diane Levitan, Steve Lieber, Steve Mattsson, Mick McCarter,
Sadie McFarlane, Greg Morrow, Stephanie Mortimer, Maddie Moydell, Mike
Meyer, Sam Powell, Carl Pietrantonio and his children Ann and Carl Jr.,
John Sardegna, Katie Schwartz, Bruce Smith, David Snyder, James and
Annette Stephenson, Paul Storrie, Jerry Stratton, Mark Thompson, Dudley
Thurston (I think that's his last name), Sidne Gail Ward and Neville
never-did-get-his-last-name.  Sorry if I've left any names out, but this
was one of those parties where folks came and went with such blurring
frequency it's hard to remember.

Kevin gives me a present - two audiotapes that he and Mark Waid made for
Interlac, the Legion apa, about a dozen years ago.  Yes, the adventures of
Mark Waid when he was a boy!  I have since listened to the tapes, and
they're quite funny.  Having a lot of friends in the radio comedy
business, I must tell you that, all fangirl impulses aside, I found Waid's
naturalistic acting style and comedic timing superb, and if he ever needs
a second career on which to fall back, I know people who know people... <g>

I learn from Tyg that Mike Parobeck just passed away, which devastates 
me.  I never had the pleasure of meeting Parobeck, but I was always a 
tremendous fan of his work.

Sidne and I joke about the upcoming trivia contest.  She informs me she 
tried to get Alex Ross, whom I hardly know, to attend the party.  "Who's 
Elayne?" he understandably asked.  "Oh, Mark Waid's fangirl," Sidne 
replied.  Gee, thanks, Sid.  Always nice to be defined solely in relation 
to other people, makes me feel *soooo* special... <g>

Dave Eppley calls from New Jersey, first posing as a pizza delivery person
on whom I hang up in semi-disgust after the joke goes on a bit longer than
I'm comfortable with and the caller still doesn't identify himself.  Let
this be a lesson, Dave - never do a prank call on me for more than ten
seconds.  He calls back and apologizes, and the phone is passed around a 
bit so everyone can say hello (although of course there *is* the 
obligatory shouted "HI DAVE!" from all present).

Steve Mattsson teases us for about 15 minutes with a SUPERBOY AND THE 
RAVERS trivia question whose answer is Rex the Wonder Dog.  I swear to 
him that we've met somewhere before I but can't remember where; he tells 
me he gets that a lot.

Terri is greeted at the door by the crowd singing "Happy Birthday" and
Sadie brought noisemakers among her other party favors and the Britishers
are getting into the swing of things and there's probably WAY too much
alcohol and Ann and Neville are having a very strange time together and
the decibel levels are rising ever rising, and up tromps Security.  Twice. 
The second time we're told in no uncertain terms that if we don't pipe
down all must vacate the premises, and it is strongly suggested we take
the party down to the Con Suite on the 8th floor.  D'oh!  Why did nobody
think of this before? 

So down we go, refreshments and all, to take over an otherwise unoccupied
floor, and this gives Steve and me a great excuse to leave our own party
early in an attempt to readjust our internal clocks.  Of course, instead
of sleeping we discover that The Movie Channel is running great old
musicals all weekend; I think this evening's was Carousel.  Or South
Pacific.  Well, we saw them both that weekend.  When you walk through a
storm, hold your head up high, and don't be afraid of the dark... 

We breakfast at the Clarion on Thursday (and every other morning), and 
are disappointed to find out they're no longer set up to do custom-made 
omelets in the dining area.  We're at the con center early, as I've 
promised to help set up the Friends of Lulu booth, but discover that 
nobody is allowed in the hall without an Exhibitor badge.  Including all 
the folks wearing tags that read "Professional."  Who have tables they 
need to set up!  No go.  We spot some CAPA-alpha folks, including Bob 
Ingersoll, who confidently asserts "Follow me! We'll find an entrance!" 
and like lemmings we trail along.  I notice I'm limping.  This is not a 
good sign.  We go through the entire meeting area on the second floor, 
unable to find another way in.  We're finally told that Pros can get in 
at 10:00am inside as the fans wait outside on the patio (again, on the 
second floor; NOBODY's getting in on the first except exhibitors).

Advice to first-time San Diego con-goers:  If you already have your badges
and registration material, don't show up until 11.  It's just too much of
a hassle.  I have no idea why the con center folks are so rigid and
hostile, nor why something like this wasn't spelled out beforehand in the
CCI literature ("Only exhibitors will be allowed in the front doors on the
first floor until such-and-such time.  Pros and fans alike must wait on
the second floor until we decide you're worthy to enter," yadda yadda). 
If you can swing an Exhibitor badge, do it; it will mean more to them
than a Pro badge, no matter how cool *you* think the latter is.

I apologize to FoL boothmeister Samantha Sackin for not being able to get
in until about 10:15.  Being the absolutely amazingly organized person she
is, Sam has long since gotten things up and running, and is already in the
process of signing up our first new members of the convention.  By the
time the weekend is over, we'll have amassed around 50 new members and
renewals, taking our total membership over 400-- the largest comics
industry organization ever!  The FoL buttons are way cool, and the
chocolate, as ever, is much appreciated.  The booth opposite ours is
playing a loop of movie previews for Jackie Chan's SUPERCOP and the second
Crow flick, together with the video of Courtney Love's remake of a
Fleetwood Mac song whose name my brain refuses to remember but whose
lyrics grace this report.  All are highly enjoyable, and I actually don't
tire of the repetition.  Chan has a female partner!  Woo hoo!  (no, I 
don't think that's her name <g>)

This morning I get to meet Mary Fleener, who helps talk Matt Groening into
joining.  I hobble over to Sirius to say hi to Mark Crilley and Teri Wood,
and finally meet Chris Knowles, who gives me the first three issues of
HALO to read and review.  (My reviews of Stuff I Got At This Summer's Cons
will constitute one or two separate posts.)  Fabian Nicieza, over at 
Acclaim, and Cory Carani, wandering the hall on the way to his table, 
both greet me with tremendous hugs.  My reputation as a physically 
affectionate person is becoming well-known. :)

I greet Dan Vado at the Slave Labor table, then check out the very nice DC
booth setup and greet Bob Wayne and Maureen McTigue and others I know
there.  I say about two words to Peter David, of whom I'll see more later
in the con, and discover Mr. Finger-on-the-Pulse-of-Comicdom still labors
under the impression that Friends of Lulu is a female-only organization. 
Needless to say, he will become a FoL member by the end of the weekend.  I
give Waid the Captain America Lego figure that David Oakes made, which he
found extremely cool, as well as a lava lamp keychain, which is an in-
joke too long to go into here.  I wave to Kevin Dooley.  This is becoming
an extremely weird running gag-- the last 2-3 times I've seen Kevin, both
at cons and in the DC offices, I haven't had a chance to speak to him at
all, and have had to make do with waves and apologetic e-mails. 

I run into Scott McCloud, whom I haven't seen for a few years now;
out of all the things I could say, the first words out of my mouth are
"Wow, I haven't seen you since before you got your hair cut!"  Johanna
Draper, working the CompuServe booth opposite a corner of the DC setup,
bops up to me (and you really have to know Johanna to understand what I
mean by "bops"-- that's the best way I can describe it) and says "Elayne,
could you do me a fav-- OH GOD!", turning practically slack-jawed at the
sight of Scott.  It hadn't hit me that she would react this way, but of
course being a pop-culture academician it stands to reason that she'd have
a tremendous admiration for the author of UNDERSTANDING COMICS.  She
gently berates me for not properly introducing her to McCloud, and I bear
this in mind later when I make sure that these formalities aren't
neglected with Scott Shaw!, whom we both meet while he's paying his 
membership dues at the Lulu table. 

I spend an hour staffing the table during Roger Stern's signing, Roger 
having been kind and accommodating enough to sign on Thursday, where he'd 
been mistakenly slotted in, instead of Friday, for which hour Kurt Busiek 
had been pencilled in.  Roger's the kind of guy who makes you feel 
instantly comfortable around him.  We mostly sat there quietly (yes, I'm 
capable of doing that), as I didn't have much to say beyond "Sorry you 
can't make tonight's Legion dinner" and such.  Always lovely to see the 
enchanting Carmela as well; she and Roger make the neatest couple!

I attend and tape the Valiant Heroes panel for Fabian, who tells me 
later he thinks the Chicago presentation went much better.  I am forced 
to agree.  The panel audiences seem comparatively dead here, and I can't 
put my finger on why.

I run into Gary St. Lawrence at the CBG table, and thank him profusely for
standing up for me during certain trying times I've had in certain other
rac* newsgroups.  As I'm doing the obligatory "ooh baby baby" bit, I
notice that this man is quite striking and has very defined musculature. 
The flirting turns more serious than I'd expected, and I excuse myself to 
go douse my face with cold water.

The evening's Legion dinner is wonderful, but getting there is not.  What
turns out to be a huge blister smack in the middle of my right sole is so
painful that I have to take my orthotic out of my sneaker, and I'm still
in bad shape.  Steve and I take the bus up to the Horton Grand and walk
three or so blocks to Sammy's to meet everyone else who's hiked there. 
Cory grabs a bunch of cocktail napkins and proceeds to draw Legionnaire
pictures for everyone.  I get me an XS.  I'm a happy camper.  Kevin Gould
continues to regale me with tales of Waid of Olde.  Steve orders this
chicken salad mound that looks like a scene from Close Encounters.  Ed
Douglas circulates a petition to introduce Shadesboy to the Legion. 

Johanna's hot to get to the Friends of Lulu party, and she and Steve and 
Kynn and Liz Bartlett and I walk (okay, I hobble) a few blocks down back 
to the Horton Grand.  The party's low-key but fun.  The drinks are 
reasonable and the desserts are free.  They have chocolate-covered 
strawberries; I'm set for the evening.  Mark Evanier holds court for 
awhile.  I greet various other pros and fans whose names escape me; I am 
no longer even taking mental notes.  San Diego has already started to 
overload my synapses.

I have a LONG talk with Heidi MacDonald, who has taken it upon herself to
become my mother hen.  Needing one desperately, I am grateful.  We talk of
fans and pros and industry matters, and then she asks me point-blank a
question that's been haunting me ever since:  "What do you want?" 

What do I want?  It's not something I'm keen to ponder.  I've shifted so 
far into activity mode, into doing without thinking, that I'm taken 
completely aback.  My own desires have been an afterthought, not an 
impetus.  What *do* I want?

I want a child; so far I cannot have one.  I want my cats to live longer;
I've lost two in a year and a half and I've still not recovered.  I want
to continue writing, and to be recognized in some credentialed manner for
it; but I cannot seem to conjure up the discipline and time to finish a
comic book script.  I want to be famous, but I've always wanted that.  I
want to *nurture* instead of *destroy*, and that goes for everything from
houseplants to friendships.  I want to stop sabotaging myself and being my 
own worst enemy.

I have no IDEA what I want.

While we're talking, a handsome bearded gentlemen stops by to say hello 
and chat with Heidi, introducing himself to me.  "Hi, I'm Len."  "Elayne, 
you've met Len Wein, right?"  Actually, no, this is the first time, and 
it's a pleasure.  Naturally, since I wasn't reading comics in Len's 
heyday, the first thing that comes to my mind is "Are you all set for 
tomorrow's trivia match?  How are you on the Silver Age?"  A twinkle in 
his eye, he jokingly responds, "Hell, I *wrote* most of it!"

Steve and I leave the party early; it takes me way too long to limp back 
to our hotel, where I tend to my blister for the next half hour.  I have 
decided that Bloody Mary is my favorite character in South Pacific, and 
I like Laurie's aunt in Carousel the best.  Obviously I have a thing for 
character actresses.

On Friday morning we finally run into CAPA-alphans Bill Schelly and Jeff
Gelb.  I advise Jeff, a huge Captain America fan, to ask Waid about the
Lego, which I hope Ron Garney (one among MANY people I didn't have a
chance to meet in San Diego) also gets a chance to see, and I wish Bill
luck in that evening's Eisners, where he's up for an award for his
wonderful "Golden Age of Fandom" book.  The con center personnel are being
more anal than usual, not even letting the Pro badges in until the fan
line outside has thinned a bit. 

I do a little shopping, getting Charles Vess and Larry Marder to sign 
stuff for me, and try for the first of many times to actually read some 
previews at the DC booth, since Maureen has informed me she's doing a 
double shipment next month and I won't actually get to see any of these 
for a few weeks.  I fail utterly, as I keep bumping into folks I know.  I 
have mentioned elsewhere that the DC booth was positively the most 
inviting and friendly space around, and I wish I could have spent more 
time there.  Bob, Maureen, Dave Vinson, Vince Letterio and others deserve 
high praise for their imaginative setup and skillful operation.  I 
finally say a brief hello to a very busy Steve Dillon, and get used to 
the idea that brief hellos will be par for the course this weekend.

I have FoL booth duty during Kurt Busiek's signing, and somewhere along
the line it dawns on me that I've seen Kurt this weekend a little more
often than I've seen my own husband.  It's a real treat spending so much
quality time with him, and even getting to flirt offline for a change,
which we didn't do during our "ships passing during the day" bit in
Chicago.  He's brought a bunch of ASTRO CITY posters to give away to folks
who make donations to Lulu, and I ask him to sign one.  "For you?"  "Nah,
make it for Steve, he doesn't have nearly enough stuff signed for him." 
Before the signature he writes:  "To Steve-- Don't let Elayne tell you
what she did to get this..."  With a great reputation comes great
responsibility... Naturally, Steve goes off to get Alex Ross to sign it,
who apparently doesn't notice the stuff written at the top. :)  For me
Kurt signs a copy of an old instructional memo he wrote while back at
Marvel, "On Writing For Comics," sent to me by our mutual friend Lawrence
Watt-Evans.  "One of my rarest works," he writes-- "an edition of less
than 25!"  And all through the hour I'm in total fangirl mode, saying to
myself, "Man, this is so cool, this is Mr. UNTOLD TALES, Mr. ASTRO CITY,
Mr. Sweep-the-Eisners tonight..."  Thanks for a terrific hour, Kurt.  One
of the highlights of my con experience. 

Mike Carlin moderates the DC panel this afternoon, which consists of 
panelists Chris Claremont, Brian Augustyn, Mark Waid, Kevin Dooley, Ron 
Marz, Kelly Jones, Marv Wolfman, Dan Thorsland and Steven Grant.  
Thorsland, Wolfman and Grant talk a bit about four upcoming titles from 
the DCU's stranger corners: CHALLENGERS OF THE UNKNOWN, THE BOOK OF FATE, 
NIGHT FORCE and SCARE TACTICS.  Steve, on my right, is psyched for all of 
them; Ed Douglas, on my left, has previews of them all in his bag.  I 
consider switching seats.  Waid again publicly admits that "Bumping off the 
Rogues Gallery might not have been the smartest thing I ever did."  
Aquaman is going to declare war on Japan soon, after "someone close to 
him" dies.  I can't shake the dread that this someone is female, and 
formulate a joke in my head along the lines of "Why don't the DC powers 
that be accept proposals for female lead characters?  Because they know 
they'll have to kill them off soon!"  I find myself not amused.  The 
panel is monoracial and all male.  I slap myself off my soapbox.

I meet Brian afterwards, and am speechless.  Yes, it happens.  I have
nothing constructive to say to a man with whom I've exchanged frequent
online banter, and I stammer and fumfer and make an idiot of myself.  I
find this a frighteningly easy pattern into which to fall.  Brian is
gracious on the outside, and doubtless wondering on the inside why he's
wasting his time talking to this utter fool.  I ask to see pictures of his
children; he tells me he's got the framed photos back in his hotel room
and will bring them in the next day.  (Which he does, and Carolyn and
Allison are, predictably, gorgeous.)

I realize I'm bored and leave halfway through the Lulu Talk about
retailing, which I didn't realize was only going to *be* about retailing,
but I find the "Breaking Into Comics for Women" panel far more informative
and enjoyable.  Panelists were Barb Rausch, Donna Barr, Stephanie Gladden,
Amanda Conner and Trina Robbins.  I got a lot of good advice in the form
of quotable sound bites which I dutifully noted and checked off in my
head:  "Hang out with the people who are doing what you want to do"
(Barb); "Develop a tough skin" about rejection (Amanda); "Use your fans"
to help spread the word about what you're doing (Donna Barr); "Competent
work speaks for itself" (also Barb); and from Lee Maars in the audience,
"Get to know the editors."  I get to know mine, who are sitting in the
row in front of me, and we have a chance after the panel ends to briefly
discuss the project I'm co-writing for them.  I walk Amanda back to the
exhibition hall, sharing her yummy chocolate chip cookie. 

Johanna wants to do sushi, so we pick up Martha Thomases and a few 
others whose names all escape me (one was "Kyle the Meat Guy"-- too long 
to explain here) and headed for a local place in the Gaslamp district 
with which Steve and I were less than thrilled two years ago, but it was 
still in business and one never knows.  It was-- eh.  I miss my "home" 
sushi place across the street from my office, where I know the chef, who 
makes me special appetizers every time I come in for lunch.  We leave 
rather hurriedly (after VERY slow service crunched our time) to change 
for the trivia contest.

Turns out we needn't have hurried-- the Eisners over at the Hyatt 
ballroom have barely started by the time we hit the convention center.  
We enter Room 10 right behind Mark Waid, who seems a bit upset at having 
found out he has another hour to wait, and decides to head back to the 
Hyatt and watch Kurt Busiek win all his awards.  I almost offer to walk 
him back, as I wouldn't mind seeing them myself, but show admirable 
restraint and remind myself that I still can't walk all that well.

I spend a few minutes in Room 10 with Peter David, who has come to watch 
and presumably heckle the contestants.  I ask about the "Pandora" 
reference in a recent CBG column of his; turns out Pandora's the family 
cat, currently expecting.  We make arrangements for Chez Chaput to adopt 
one of the kittens after it's weaned; I still don't want to think about 
how we're going to get the li'l darlin' from Bayside to Brooklyn.  
Johanna notices for the first time that Steve and Peter *do* bear some 
physical resemblance to one another, and utters a new twist on a line 
I've actually heard before, remarking to Peter, "Oh, you must be Steve's 
evil twin."  About ten minutes into the banter I realize I'm having 
trouble breathing (when the panel room doors are open the a.c. shuts off 
automatically) and head into the spacious outer hall to get some writing 
done in my matchbook-sized notepad.  A 3-page story idea quickly turns 
into six pages, and that's just the monologue.  I resolve to bury this 
Monster That Got Away for the time being, and return to the panel room 
just as folks from the Eisners are trickling in.

The fan team has been there since 10, and most of the pros have arrived. 
But Kurt's not there, he's getting his picture taken with the two Eisners
he's just won for ASTRO CITY (Alex Ross picked up a third).  Sidne and I
consult as to the terms of our bet.  To update those of you from other
planets, last November at our party before the Mid-Ohio Con, Sidne Gail
Ward and I were discussing this match and made a friendly wager with one
another.  If the pro team won, she would forgo reading any Legion-related
books for a period of one month after the contest.  If the fan team won, I
could not read a Waid-written book for an equal amount of time.  This bet
was, of course, made long before KINGDOM COME's final schedule was set.
<g> The fans have agreed to play 3-on-3 against Waid, Len Wein and Roger
Stern, but the terms of the bet *clearly* state that Waid *and Busiek*
have to be on the pro team.  We consult, and I declare we've agreed "The
bet's off." 

"Wait a minute!" says Mark and motions me over, incredulous that I don't
have enough faith in his ability to pick up the slack without Kurt. 
"Please, I can take 'em, trust me..."  Well, it's not that, it's the terms
of the bet... oh, all right.  Fine.  It's HIS books, after all, that I've
put on the line.  "Bet's back on," I relent.

And the contest between the Purple Pros and the Rogues Gallery Revenge
Squad (Tom Galloway, David Goldfarb, Greg Morrow, Jim Murdoch and a fellow
I never do get to meet--Greg, Jim and the other guy alternated for one
another), moderated by Jim Hay, is just about to start when... in runs
Kurt, Eisners in hand-- which he proceeds to whip out of the plastic bag
he's carrying and prop up on the table in front of the pro team.  Let the
game begin! 

Well, you all know the outcome.  It's a VERY close match through to the
end.  At one point the fans are ahead by something like 20 points.  Peter
quips "And Elayne's sweating bullets..."  He's just peeved that I didn't
bet a month of *his* books. <g>  Roger Stern gives an especially stellar
performance for the pros.  Tyg answers practically every question on the
fans' side.  Waid pulls it out last minute, though, responding to another
"question I've been waiting to answer all my life," something about Killer
Frost and dry ice.  The final score is announced:  Fans 170, Pros 190. 
Mark beams at me, and Kurt smiles and says, "Well, Elayne, it looks like
Kingdom will Come again!"  I go over to Sidne, shaking her hand and
apologizing.  People are congratulating *me*, as if I'd done something. 
Michael Grabois snaps a picture for CBG of the winning team making "thumbs
up" gestures, and I give Waid a slight hug and a peck on the cheek.  He 
assures me that, had the pros lost, he would have filled me in on all the 
books I'd missed, but of course it wouldn't have been the same as reading 
them.  I think I got Roger to make the same promise to Sidne.

And here's where things got... strange.

Part II
=======

"And is it over now
Do you know how
To pick up the pieces and go home..."

Rarely can I pinpoint as clear a line of demarcation between euphoria and
despair as at the San Diego comicon.  The change starts subtly, at midnight
Friday night/Saturday morning, just as the trivia match ends and a bunch 
of us decides to celebrate with the pros at the bar atop the Hyatt.  Note 
the operative words, "WITH THE PROS."  This is comics fandom, there's no 
*real* distance between fans and pros, right?

Well, let me tell you, my friends.  Straddle that fault line all you want 
to, when the ground opens up and you don't remember which side you're 
*really* on, you're gonna fall right through that chasm.

Feeling a cold coming on, Steve decides to take the videocamera and
himself back to our hotel room, and catches a shuttle bound for the
Clarion.  Okay fine, my husband's not there, the better to flirt, I 
figure nonchalantly.  Then Roger drops off and heads back to his hotel 
room.  Then Kurt and Peter bid us goodnight.  And I'm limping behind the 
other fans as Waid, setting too fast a pace for me to follow without 
pain, keeps saying "Come on, give me another one," and the fans keep 
quizzing him on his Silver Age knowledge.  Fine, I assure myself, I've 
been lucky enough to spend time with Roger and Kurt and even Peter, at 
least I can celebrate with Len and Mark...

And we near the Hyatt lobby.  And Waid says to the group of fans
surrounding him, "All right, just *one* more question before I turn into a
normal person and then I don't know you any more."  And I think he's
kidding.  And we enter the hotel.  And Waid goes off in another direction 
than the lemming brigade, heading for the top floor bar.  He has indeed 
become a normal person who doesn't know us any more.  I ponder what in 
fact this makes me.  What do I want?

And I buy Sidne and myself beers, and sit with the rest of the fans, whom
I love dearly BUT-- I have seen and been with them throughout the con
anyway.  And I wonder what I'm doing here, in this smoky bar, downing more
water than alcohol to keep myself hydrated, watching a sudden fog obscure
the windows overlooking the harbor.  And as the fog lifts a few minutes
later, it feels like it took a little sliver of my soul with it, a piece I
know I'll never retrieve no matter how many times and ways I kid myself.  
What do I want?

San Diego is not for the weak of spirit.  If you come there as a fan with 
a plan, hang out with friends and shop and get autographs, you'll 
probably have a grand time.  If you go as a pro, established in the 
industry, you'll take meetings and do signings and exhaust yourself but 
you'll know why you're there.  If you're a 'tweener, you're sure as shit 
going to feel like the raggedy little orphan peering longingly into the 
window of a happy family on Christmas morning.  Especially after you've 
knocked off a couple of cold ones.  I convince David and Katie that I 
cannot make the walk to the Clarion at 2am unassisted, and assure them I'll 
pay for the cabfare back if they'll keep me company.  I no longer trust 
myself alone.

Saturday and Sunday are blurs.  Saturday begins with the traditional
CAPA-alpha lunch.  Lots of dear friends, but I look around and notice I'm 
the only woman, and probably one of the younger folks at the table.  This 
is comic fandom's glorious history, in the flesh, but it's also fandom's 
past.  And I'm mired in-- the present?  The future?  No time at all?

There are others with whom I finally hook up-- Joey Cavalieri at the DC
booth, whom I kid about doing a Mark Time sketch for me (Mark Time is a
Firesign Theatre character whose further adventures Joey has chronicled in
three comic pages which I'm running in my FT newsletter); Mark Crilley,
with whom I have a delightful time during his signing at the Lulu booth
where I get to extol the virtues of AKIKO to anyone within earshot; Gerry
Jones, whom I finally see one hour before the con closes; Steven Grant,
with whom I converse at length about something I can no longer remember...
it all goes by quickly.  I'm befogged, shrouded.  Hellos to Andi Watson,
sign my SKELETON KEY, Rob Walton, sign my RAGMOP, Steve Lieber, can I
please have the beautiful Wonder Woman sketch you're doing?, Greg Hyland,
hey I see LETHARGIC LAD is finally out and that's a *great* Alex Ross
cover for #3, Evan Dorkin, hey what's the word on NY conventions... 

Dinner Saturday night at the Horton Plaza with Sidne, Greg, Kynn and Liz,
Rick Jones, David Snyder and Michael Grabois, after which Steve and I
crash big-time.  Friends of Lulu annual national meeting Sunday morning,
which runs with clockwork precision.  Election results announced later in
the day; everyone I voted for wins, as I'd predicted they would.  All six
incumbents are re-elected, and the seventh new board member is my hero,
Kim Yale.  I find out later that, according to California non-profit org. 
laws, one *can* vote more than once for the same candidate.  I didn't vote
for myself; I have no sense of self left any more.  I'm happy, I'm not
happy.  What do I want? 

I never meet Karl Kesel, Ron Garney, Dave Garcia (whom another editor of
mine specifically asked me to seek) and quite a few others.  I don't say a
proper goodbye to most of my friends; I have no idea when I'll see them
again.  Kurt has informed me he's heard the 1997 convention schedule: 
Heroes Con on Father's Day weekend, followed two weeks later by Dragon
Con, one week after that by Chicago, and then San Diego two weeks thence. 
Again.  I can almost feel the pros in the room collectively groaning.  If
I don't have a published book to show for myself, I have no reason to
return to San Diego next year.

Some CompuServe and rac* folks gather at Baja for a post-mortem, after
which Steve and I crash one more time.  We're up early Monday for our
flight;  the shuttle bus never arrives.  We cab it instead, and wind up
spending less money.  We're in St. Louis, our transfer point, in plenty of
time, but there's a wicked storm in New Jersey, and our flight to Newark
is cancelled.  We're on standby for the next one, three hours later, and
have definite seats for the flight after that, which should get us into
Jersey at about 1am.  We make the standby flight, which goes into the
Holding Pattern from Hell somewhere over Cleveland, rattles and shakes
through Pennsylvania, buzzes in and out of a Manhattan lightning storm (a
beautiful thing to watch FROM THE GROUND when you're not sitting inside a
LARGE METAL OBJECT) and finally lands four hours after takeoff.  It's just
after midnight Tuesday morning, our luggage has been waiting for us and I
consider kissing the ground, but I'm not *that* physically affectionate. 
We spend the night at my parents' house, no air conditioning, 'nuff said. 

Thank goodness I've taken Tuesday off work, and barely catch up on my
e-mail before venturing into Usenet.  Panix promptly decides to crash for
a day and a half.  Our shop in Brooklyn has their second UPS screwup in as
many weeks, so I hit local Manhattan comics shops four times in two days,
make it through 15 reviews by Sunday (this) morning, after which I see two
movies, write two script pages with Leah over the phone (not an easy task
with her children interrupting her every half minute), and finish this
report ten minutes to midnight Sunday evening.  Our air conditioner has
just broken. 

What do I want?  At this point I'd settle for a good night's sleep.

- Elayne

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