Todd Terwilliger

When last we left our hero, he had returned, if not triumphantly than at least mostly unscathed, back to Brooklyn. Fortified by dinner at neighborhood watering hole, Maggie Brown, he and Uncle Bob retired for the night.

Morning. It sloshed over us sluggishly. We trifled with it, talking about Nazis while waiting for my sister to arrive from Pennsylvania, playing a few rounds of Everyday Shooter, eating at Maggie Brown again before noon rose it’s head, demanded our attention, and stared us down into the subway warrens.

The con on Saturday was almost exactly like the con on Friday except more so, much much much more so.

The con has much to offer a brave man willing to run its gauntlet. The veil between auteur and audience is only as thick as the width of a folding table, often even less than that. Hidden behind wandering ronin with plastic swords and ersatz heros and villains, are real interactions with real artists about their work.

Along the busy corridors, they hawked their wares like fishwives amid booths filled with swag and goods for sale- the great enclosed space of the convention center transformed into an ancient and eternal marketplace, a Djemaa el Fna for the dedicated geek. And we had dedication. To spare.

We only managed a single panel, for Torchwood. Let me be upfront: I am not a Torchwood fan. I don’t despise it. I am simply, utterly apathetic towards it. My sister, however, is a huge fan. So it was at her goading that we found the panel room, waited in line, and dropped into a trio of seats that provided an excellent view of a concrete pylon and a much less excellent view of the Torchwood speakers.

During my travels, I acquired The Looking Glass Wars after hearing the pitch from its author, Frank Beddor. The Alice in Wonderland setting was too much to be resisted.

We wandered through the crowds, despite pumped in air drier than than any earthly desert. Midway through the afternoon, my mouth felt coated in sand, or grit, or worse. Our arms grew heavy from bag carrying, our legs tired of walking. By six, we were a spent force, finished.

My general philosophy is to use mass transit whenever possible. It was my philosophy still after a day of wading through the full fury of the con. My two companions, however, wouldn’t hear of it. To their defeated bodies, the distance to 8th avenue stretched towards infinity. Getting there was a march to suicide, an assured grim death somewhere in an alley of cracked concrete and stale urine, our useless bodies abused by vile red-eyed hobos. It was impossible.

We took a cab.

To be continued (including more pictures and the end of our journey through the land of nerd.)

Technorati Tags: alice in wonderland, comics, everyday shooter, frank beddor, looking glass wars, maggie brown, nazis, new york comic con, torchwood