Defying Convention: Magma Demons and Renegade Produce

New York Comics Convention
Location: Javits Center
Cost: A friend with an Industry Pass (Sorry, I know this is rather undemocratic for this blog)
Bohemian Factor: Moderate
Geek Factor: Very High

February 26, 2006

Fashion week may be over, but for fetish-hungry New Yorkers of a different breed, the opportunity for crowds to ogle over unnatural bodies, covet limited number of admissions tickets, pay homage to over-the-top spectacle and wear ridiculous costumes comes in quite a different form.

I am referring of course, to the New York Comics Convention which took place this past February at the Javits Center, attracting thousands of New Yorkers who, while spoiled with access to many of the most avant-garde international arts groups and the world’s highest density of gourmet grocery stores, have, until now, been deprived of the pilgrimage known as ComiCon. Entire families and couples dress up in carefully coordinated costumes from Farscape and other obscure mythologies. Wheelers and dealers negotiate over rare issues of The Incredible Hulk. Obscure tongue-in-cheek superheroes come out of the woodwork, from the benign to the phallic (e.g. “The Giant Flaming Carrot Man and his Baloney Gun”)

Once beyond the Javits doors, I couldn’t entirely deny the existence of the oily-skinned, Dungeons & Dragons playing, wiccan-loving stereotype. Yet many of us know that this is not necessarily the norm. Friends who are otherwise rational professionals care passionately which character in “X-men: Evolution” has the power to teleport, feverishly argue about with whom Buffy should be hooking up with, and can identify the series that hosted the first interracial kiss on television without batting an eyelash. And of course, some of us ARE those friends.

Although I have long harbored a soft spot for the Japanese anime series Robotech and Joss Whedon’s sci-fi/Western series Firefly, I was clearly a novice compared to the multitudes of fan-fiction reading, cape-wearing, quote-spewing fellow convention-goers, all of whom seem seemed much more practiced at the whole idée fixe thing.

Or was I just being a snob, denying that I might, in fact, be one of them?

Of course, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. I soon found myself a potential consumer of contact lenses that would transform me into one of the mutant-like, man-eating bad guys from certain blockbuster fantasy movies, and their brethren from much more low budget entertainments, at least from the nose up.

Deliberating between "Magma Demon“ and "Black Orc Death Dealer," I ultimately opted to tell the vendor I'd be going for a custom made pair. As I began describing an elaborate color-scheme for my impending conversion to Klingon-hood, I realized, that I should, as a doctor’s daughter, be asking if there might be any adverse medical ramifications after turning my eyeballs into glowing red and yellow orbs.

“Of course not! Just don’t wear them for more than two hours a time, dear.”

Narrowly escaping a brush with Demon Makeup-induced Blindness Syndrome, I found the perfect distraction in a beloved female Joss Whedon character immortalized in impressive charcoal print several booths over (granted, with a drastic increase in cup size). Finally! Something I recognized.

Upon complementing the illustrator on his taste, I found myself engaged in a conversation on what shade of blue my eyes were. Now, here, I must issue the warning that if you are a girl, and you are not a sixteen year old Goth Chick, and you lack any obvious limb deformities, going to ComiCon is like going to Hooters. I mean it. Concerned about where this was all heading, I lied, “These aren’t real, actually. I just was at that booth over there” (pointing to the space-alien eyeball woman) “and I’m trying on a pair of ‘Sea Nymph Phantasm.’ Do you think I should buy them? I think ‘Death Dealer’ is more my speed.”

Suffice to say, our fine illustrator realized he was being toyed with after a few minutes of this, and diffidently broke away to interest a group of teenage boys in a sexed-up waif-like elf woman from “Lord of the Rings” trilogy.

Next up: a booth selling all manner of computer games, where a bearded vendor patiently explained to a picky eleven year old boy the intricate rules of a role-playing simulation full of buxom, gun-toting female sidekicks (are we detecting a theme, here?) and egregious bloodletting. With a furrowed brow, the boy asked for ornate details, contemplating whether or not this was a wise purchase, like a tester for “Consumer Reports.” Waiting out this exchange, I discovered my personal favorite. At first I thought I had misread “Dark Tower," but, in fact, no.

“Each character is assigned a specific obsession, and to win the game, you have to collect as many items as you can relating to that obsession!” explained the bearded man.

“I can’t imagine anyone here ever being able to relate to characters like THAT,” I noted with sufficient snottiness, watching convention-goers fill up shopping bags with artwork, vintage editions, dolls, board games, and graphic “On the Making Of…” coffee table books. The man, to his credit, laughed.

After two hours of this, I fell victim of that specific kind of crankiness most often channeled by four year olds who spend ten minutes too long at the mall. I kept circling back to the same booth with the Buffy dolls. The Marvel Comics illustrator who’d secured my pass had disappeared. And everyone I singled out for directions to the exit kept speaking to me only in character. A very flirtatious man in a giant faceless banana costume and a cape -perhaps a cousin to the Carrot Man?- tried to be helpful, but only ended up frightening me (Where’s a Baloney Gun when you need one?) I ran in an arbitrary direction, happily stumbling upon the exit. But not before stopping to buy three Firefly comic books, relieved by the certification that Joss Whedon himself had penned them.

After all, I had my own obsessions to feed.