fracturedguy

I'm walking around a room filled with tables. At each table, there is a person. Some people are getting attention; indeed, there are lines of people waiting to see them. Other people, at other tables, are looking neglected, or are drawing, or are both. I don't allow myself to make eye contact. I want to talk to them about their comics, but I can't. I don't know their work. I know four of the people, and there are lines at their tables. Of course there are--EVERYBODY knows THEM. Mike Mignola, Tim Sale, David Mack, Rob Liefeld. Rob Liefeld... is it worth it to stand in line to spit on someone? I decide not.
I'm walking around, outshone by the knowledge and confidence of all these comic book fans. I never knew how little I knew about comics until now. I was not worthy to pay the admission price but, generously, they took my money. And now I'm in so over my head. A glance to the left breaks my shoe-gaze, and it catches my eye: a tattoo, and one I know.

Her name is Lyxzen and Erica Danger, and she is tiny--a full foot shorter than I might have guessed. I've seen her naked; I've seen her six friends naked too, but this is the first time I've met them. Still embarrassed and shy, I shake their hands and we all introduce ourselves. I manage to compliment Lyxzen's tattoos, to let her know they're, I think, the coolest tattoos I've ever seen, and she shakes her ass, tells me she's wagging her tail because I've made her happy, and I'm soooo out of my element. I buy a DVD (which the girls all autograph, even though some of them were minors when the DVD came out; even though none of them are featured on it), a deck of cards, and I leave.
I return a moment later to ask if I might take a photo.
Soon after, I leave the Emerald City Comic Book Convention altogether.