Comic Contemplations, Part 3
In which our hero’s voyage comes to an end, but not before he meets men of legend, accumulates some much deserved booty, and escapes with a share of swag.
Sunday. The last day, the final hurrah, the end. I set the alarm early. We had stayed up too late last night watching The Wire. You simply cannot watch just one episode of The Wire. It gets on top of you too fast. Before you know it, the clock has jumped ahead six hours and you’re laying akimbo on your couch half-naked with a belt tied around your arm, held tight by one end, the end which is clamped between your gritty teeth. You’re looking down at a throbbing vein in your arm and you don’t know why.
Somehow Uncle Bob and I, we were able to rouse ourselves. We had plans today, ideas, and ideas for plans. They all required a quick start to the morning. We moved sluggishly but with determination and an odd efficiency. No moves were wasted. No time for lazy brunching, we threw back a couple of bagels before plunging into the subway.
We made it to the Javitz Center early. Enough time to wander past the accordionist playing the Legend of Zelda theme outside the building. Enough time to descend into the bowels of the place, the subterranean space below the con floor where the panels were held. We were looking for the panel on diversity in comics. To find it, we had to wend our way past every other panel room. It could not have been put any further away from public access than it was. It was the polar outpost of the con.