I have nothing to write about today. I went to Toronto for the Toronto Comic Arts Festival, and I planned to review the event, but that never ended up happening. Mostly because while I was there, I was too intimidated by the teeming masses of hippies and freaks to actually experience the event. This depressed me further by the time I got to the bus home and realized I had wasted twenty dollars in getting to Toronto and back on GO transit just to buy a copy of The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Vol. II and Century: 1910 at Chapters. I mean, did a lot of good stuff happen today? No… I sorta saw Danielle Corsetto… from a distance… as well as David Malki !… from the same distance… I’m not exactly the world’s most outgoing guy, okay? I don’t like bothering people, and that includes people who are literally there for me to bother at a fan convention. I just feel like an entitled douchebag.
And not helping matters in that regard is that for the large majority of artists there, I could not care less about their work. I hate saying this in a place where people can see, but I gotta be honest with you, blog. I just don’t care about the medium the way these artists and these fans do. I don’t care about graphic novels, I don’t care about comic books and I don’t care about webcomics. I care about high quality work. That’s it. And all these people there are discussing the new Invincible trades, and talking to all these artists about how cool their book about cats doing things people do is, and for god’s sake, it is not cool if it’s the eightieth one I’ve seen. And what kills me is the exhibitor with the most people cramming to get to his booth chokes the bottleneck around the only two artists I want to see whom no one else can recognize on sight. And even saying that is an insult to their dear friend–so what the hell am I supposed to do if I don’t like the majority of stuff?
I know, I know, do as mom says and don’t say anything bad. Don’t say anything negative cos the person has a very loyal fanbase that will tear you to shreds if they catch wind of your dissent. Not only that, but you don’t want to be a douchebag. I don’t want to be a douchebag, and I’m sure you don’t either, and if I’d spent years of my life doing something that thousands of people love, the last thing I’d want to hear is that some asshat in Canada thinks my comic finally revealed itself to be utter crap at strip #511. I love the guy and I wish him nothing but success, but because I have to be polite to all of these people I’d honestly give a limb to work with, I can’t be an accurate critic. And is that what I’m really building my life towards? Being a guy who’s walled off from all of the creative people on the other side of the fence, enjoying their fandom and success while I get to bitterly rail against them and be told I’m just jealous because they’re famous?
My god would I have liked to have an actual story about what happened to me at TCAF today. The only anecdote I have is that after I finished a delicious handmade pizza at a local pizzeria, I asked a lonely looking (admittedly cute) girl if she could watch my stuff while I went to the bathroom. First, I asked her if she was here for TCAF. Said yes, asked watch over stuff, went to the bathroom, come out, thank her profusely, ask if she’s going back inside because I really hate doing these kind of lots of people in public things alone, and she says “Well, I sorta have to. I’m an artist.” So, not only did I just (apparently) hit on an artist who is exhibiting at TCAF, I got her to hold my things for me while I took a dump. That happened. That happened to me, and I’m sure it was nowhere near as embarrassing for her as it was for me. Hell, if she even tweeted it, that’d be a big step up in status for (I’m) Not a Fanboy.
And that is the only conversation I had with another human being at the whole event. Hold my stuff, I gotta take a dump. Come back, find out she’s an artist, run away with tail between legs. Realize I could have at least asked her what she did and what table she was at and if I could come by later to check out her stuff. Instead, be an idiot like I always am. And this is the thing that worries me most about being a middle school, high school, university loner dropout: I have no idea how to talk to anyone. No one ever talked to me when everyone else was learning how to talk to each other, so I’m left alone and worried and nervous and not being able to do anything but stand there silently and look overwhelmed. I missed out on a good seven years of social education–even further if we delve into primary school. Sometimes it’s all I wonder about.
Like when I’m standing in a sea of people who are all loners, misfits, freaks and perverts like me. Who are all hippies like me. Why do I resent them so? Why do I want them to leave, to go far away from me, to leave me alone to talk to people I admire in relative peace without the hassles of a line forming behind me? Why do I feel such hatred toward them despite the fact that I should feel like I belong? I think it’s because they get to have friends and feel like they belong. And I get to sit on the sidelines again, wondering what the hell happened.