Welcome to the Con-ivale

I am a geek. Have been since the day I first held the paddle controller for an Atari 2600 in my chubby little hand and announced to the heavens (well, really, to my brother) I WILL DESTROY YOU!

It was shortly after that, that I began to read comic books and then, dedicated myself to the blackest of the Geek Arts, the collecting of action figures.

You could say that by the time I was thirteen, I was pretty much a card carrying member of the UnCool Clan (I think that our tartan would be made up of pixelated Mario figures jumping over a Goomba) and as such, remained a virginal and untarnished geek who never knew what it was like to mingle with a large crowd of like-minded fools hell bent on “Doing-It” until the Cosplay outfits fell off their bodies into one gigantic pool of Doritos-flavored sweat.

That is until I went my first Con and discovered that Geekdom was a hell of a lot sexier than I ever thought possible.

Now, a first Con is not unlike fornicating for the first time. It is scary, it is sticky, and, after it’s over, you feel a bit used up and sore in places that have never felt tender before.

For me, my first con was filled with the sights and smells of scantily clad men and women roaming the halls searching for missing issues of Hellblazer, the overt flirting of a David Duchovny/Fox Mulder cosplayer, and invites to after parties that promised a whole lot more than I was willing to offer at the time (now, however, I’m the first one in line).

It was intoxicating and addictive. It felt like stumbling into the VIP section of a swingers club and not being kicked out. It was like being felt up by the lust of your life and they just happen to be wearing a Green Lantern t-shirt.

It was like experiencing Carnivale in Brazil and you never wanted to stop dancing in your underwear….Ever.

And that is why I’ve kept going back to Cons year after year.

You see, in my everyday life I am a sweat-pants wearing, cyber-writer whose day is made up of long lonely stretches on the Internet, searching for pictures of a shirtless Alex Trebek.

For no other reason than that is what is required of me professionally.

But come Con-time, I morph into a tight-jeans sporting, heaving breasts in a V-neck t-shirt-kinda Geek Goddess that walks the hallowed Convention Halls like a member of the In-Crowd whose language is no longer limited to a series of whispered observations about the superiority of Superman’s dog Krypto over the far less talented Ace-The Bat Hound (Batman’s dog) in darkened corners, but into a combative, feral, Amazon who is unafraid to scream at the top of her lungs:

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO CHRISTOPHER PRIEST MUTHAFUCKAS! I MEAN HIS RUN ON BLACK PANTHER WAS THE BOMB! AND QUANTUM AND WOODY? COMPLETELY FUCKING BRILLIANT!

And the aftermath of such a statement is sublime. Bottles of over-priced water are thrown into my arms like offerings, business cards of Independent comic book writers are stuffed into my pockets, and better yet, I feel complete and hopeful and beautiful.

But alas, it is not meant to last much longer.

For I am passing into “old” territory very quickly.

No longer will my witty repartee on the Luna Bros be tolerated as my breasts start to fall south. There is a limited amount of time left that I can get away with wearing a girl-cut Back to the Future Flux Capacitor t-shirt before it gets gross, and, sadly, I am getting to the point where my 1985 Apple II E references are no longer biting commentary but incoherent babbling from a mad woman on an obsolete computer no one remembers anymore.

And I mourn the fact that in a few years I will be one of those people who are pushing overflowing basket carts filled to the brim with freebie con gear and complaining about the Saturday crowds to anyone who will listen.

It’s a passing of the geek torch I guess, but, like the revelry of all celebrations, one generation must leave in order for another generation to pretend that they were the ones that created it.
So here’s my advice to the next crew who will take my place:

1. Girls, if you happen to catch the eye line of James Marsters between autographing sessions, your best course of action is to make obscene gestures with your mouth. You will not have to pay the $20 bucks for his signature on your boob.

2. Guys, don’t be shy when asking to take a pic of a girl dressed like Princess Leia in a gold bikini. She knows you will be masturbating to it later and you know you will be masturbating to it later. It’s one of those silently agreed upon pacts, so shoot away.

3. Never approach Bruce Campbell without permission. I’m not telling you why, but it involves you on the ground with a boot in your ass if you refuse to follow this one simple rule.

4. And finally, just because you have enough Ace bandages, doesn’t mean you should dress like LeeLoo.

Party on.