I’m back from San Diego Nerdfest 2011

Somebody – me – in his infinite wisdom decided that it would be a good idea to go down to San Diego Comic Con 2011 with my usual group of moronic, drunkard friends for a full week. Again. That makes two years in a row of a marathon of booze, shenanigans, homoeroticism and nerdification. Needless to say, I can’t even think of the word whiskey without wanting to throw up a little bit right now. It’s still too soon.

This is not to imply that I didn’t have fun. I did have fun. Lots of fun. Way too much fun. So much that I’m sore still and I only partially remember why. What I can say is that the non-barhopping parts of the San Diego trip were far fewer and further between than previous SD trips. We swung for the fences on the whole getting loaded thing.

I kicked the whole trip off by taking in the Giants/Padres game on Sunday, a game which I was barred from entry into because of my Lincecum shirt that says “FU_K YEAH!” on it. Just to be clear, I did not omit the C in fuck to make this a cleaner article. The shirt doesn’t have the C printed on it. It has Mr. Timmy’s silhouette in place of the C, thereby making it just slightly naughty. This was lost on the stadium staff, apparently.

The crotchety, old usher who scanned my ticket obviously didn’t approve or get the reference. So, I had to turn my T-shirt inside out, which was annoying. Especially after I got in and saw several other Giants fans wearing the same shirt. Frankly, I think I was profiled as a troublemaker. I suppose I should be kind of proud of that. Hmmm. Let me think about that one. Okay, yeah, I am. I look awesome and tough and stuff.

Adam and Brett arrived after the game, later that evening. Beerfest started immediately upon their arrival, and continued throughout the following Sunday night. I only remember eating solid food a handful of times, replacing it instead with alcohol and shame. I do recall Brett always having some sort of food product around late at night, though. It was like he magically conjured fried chicken on our walks home from the Gaslamp area. Did I mention yet that he ate a burrito in the bathroom at about 0400 while the rest of us were asleep?

After the first night, Adam and I nicknamed Brett “Chucky” due to his rather odd behavior of awaking late at night/early in the morning, shuffling around the room in his socks, turning random lights on and trying to talk to us while we were passed out drunk. And, of course, eating. Luckily, he didn’t stab any of us with kitchen knives.

Kevin arrived on the first day of the Con, Thursday. Over the first two days of the convention, I saw far too many fake tattoo sleeves worn by fellow nerds for it to be a bad-fashion coincidence. Eventually, I figured out that these were a promotional item for some unknown TV show or whatnot. And just to be clear about this, I didn’t and still don’t approve one bit. Nothing says, “I am a profoundly pathetic geek” more than wearing a fake tattoo sleeve. If you want to wear sleeves, just buy a shirt with them. They are widely available. Get one of those stupid MMA inspired ones if you want, the ones with the tribal patterns and random tough-guy words all over them. I’d respect you more for that, even though you would still be a douchebag. Or just get a sleeve tattoo and be less of a pussy.

Another thing that I became increasingly aware of as the week drew on was how many people down there were from Los Angeles. Now, I don’t hate LA or people from LA. I grew up a Dodgers and Angels fan as a little kid and there’s no use feeling embarrassed for that. I lived down there. They were my local teams. What are you gonna do? LA is just a city. It has its pros and cons. There are hot girls there. That’s a pro.

What I did come to quickly gather is that Goths from LA are the most painfully snobby and rage-inspiring group of pansies that I’ve ever had the displeasure of interacting with. Seriously guys, you are not cool. You look like female vampires in drag – men’s clothing obviously inspired by what affluent cabin boys used to wear on tall ships. I would be TOTALLY OKAY WITH THIS were you a fun loving group of iconoclasts who simply like to feel some sort of kinship and belonging with people who have similar interests. But you aren’t. You come to Comic Con just to feel superior to everyone else and try your damndest not to interact with anybody who you don’t already know. You are haters, to use the current vernacular. To use an older term: dicks.

I have a solution to the LA Goth crowd’s problem with other SDCC attendees: don’t come. You can just go to your local mall like you did in high school and make fun of people who aren’t into what you are. You’ll save gas money, or at least your one friend with the car will. Then you can all buy more jaunty blouses, women’s pants and black hair dye at Hot Topic while insisting that you didn’t purchase said items at said location.

Enough about that. I did meet a bunch of cool people at the Con, including Jimmie Robinson who writes the adult oriented comic Bomb Queen. I also got Jeph Loeb’s signature on Incredible Hulk #600. Randomly in the Hilton Bayfront, I met Josh Barnett, the world’s coolest MMA fighter. I saw Michael C. Hall and told him I liked his show. He seemed kind of annoyed by the nerds following him to his car wanting a picture but still stopped to take a few with them; I manned the camera. Also, I found myself brutally eye-molesting a super-hot Asian girl who turned out to be Oliva Munn when she got closer. I told Ms. Munn that I loved her reporting on the Daily Show so she’d know I was all intellectual and witty – not just a nerd who has masturbated countless times to pictures of her in a Slave Leia outfit.

The hands-down, no joke BEST meeting was on the last day of the con at the bar of the Hyatt, where we were staying. First, Brett started looking at a hot girl and directed my attention to her. She stood up from the table she was seated at along with the rest of her party, one of whom happened to be Nathan Fillion, my beloved Captain Malcolm Reynolds from Firefly. I just happened to be wearing a Firefly shirt, so I walked up to him and asked him if he liked it. He smiled, pulled a pen from his pocket, and signed his name on my right shoulder. Then he shook my hand. Then I fired ropes and ropes of jizz in my underpants but I didn’t tell him that.

Epic. Nerd. Gasm.

Brett took a picture of the whole interaction but I know that I’ll never get to see it again because he is a complete dumbass who seems totally incapable of emailing pictures from any of our trips after 2008.

All in all, it was a successful trip. Kevin and I got in a small fistfight but made up. I’m pretty sure I kicked his ass though, because he had knee surgery scheduled for today so he was already crippled. We will have to have a rematch next time we go on vacation, get totally drunk and start wrestling in our underwear in bed together.

Oh, I hit my head on the dresser and my face is still swollen.

Unrelated to that - Brett, if you are reading this, stop chasing your buddies around with your boner. I find it pretty weird that I have to ask you more than once.

 

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