Just for Tom, I've kept this all in one post. But something tells me I really oughta break this up.
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It’s Spelled “F I G U E R O A”, Dummy.
I didn’t reliably know how to spell that until just this week. Forgot the “u after e except after w” rule. Why was I staying at the luxurious, Moroccan-styled Figueroa Hotel in Los Angeles some 350 miles from my newly-native Sierra Nevada Foothills?
Because I went to Wizard World Los Angeles. Which is actually held in Los Angeles now, but used to be called Wizard World Los Angeles back when it was held in Long Beach. Long Beach is NOT Los Angeles, by the by. That’s like saying that Oakland, or more accurately, Fairfield, is in San Francisco. It just isn’t. But I guess Los Angeles has cache that Long Beach just doesn’t. Even if Wizard World fit better into the Long Beach convention center and had a wider variety of nice bars right outside the doorway. Don’t get me wrong. The city of LA has done wonders punching up the Convention Center area of downtown into shape. There’s still some work on the south side of Main yet, but I suspect that’ll be a perpetual condition.
My last Wizard show was probably three years back, when they first went to the LA convention center. My immediate thought then was that they were trying to fit into bigger shoes than they could wear. My opinion really hasn’t changed. Of the big two, only one was present in any force (though I saw both Bob Wayne and Dan DiDio of DC walking the halls at different times), meaning Marvel dominated the front of the convention hall. You had to walk past Marvel to get anywhere. Which was less than convenient when you wanted to, say, leave your seat at artist’s alley and pay ten dollars for a salad that had been so refrigerated for so long that it actually tasted more of Freon than of Romaine. Which I did, but I’m not really proud of.
Pro tip: if you’re at the LA Convention Center for a show and have time, go up Figueroa to Olympic (east for those of you who work in cardinal points), turn left after crossing Olympic and go to the car wash. Inside the car wash is a taqueria which was pretty darn good the last time I went there, and is going to cost you a lot less than the Styrofoam salad will. Both in the short and the long run. If you’ve a little more time on your hands and have a taste for the old-fashioned greasy spoon side of things, head to The Pantry which is open whenever you are. They actually know how to make two eggs over medium, too. No runny whites here. But please, don’t expect anything heart or hips-healthy there. It’ll stick to your ribs and then some.
Friday? Friday was a waste. Not only was my flight late, but even if it had been on time, I’d have only had two hours at the show floor. As it was, I got there in time to spend all of a half hour seated back in the back of the room at the artist’s alley. Now, if I was making a convention and I wanted to ensure circulation, I’d damn well put the star attractions back at the back of the room. Wizard World doesn’t consider the artists to be the stars (though Ethan Van Sciver usually had a healthy line in front of him—maybe this Sinestro Wars things is gonna stick around.) Really, the show was all about Marvel and Top Cow/Aspen. Nothing against either of them, but I’m just not interested in most of their books. And the ones that I’m interested in aren’t really being talked up there. But hey, I can’t complain about them playing to the crowd.
Except when I have to go in and out of the hallway. And then it’s a real pain. There’s a lot of shouting and exhorting and feeding-frenzy like behavior that I might exhibit if I were in the presence of say, Jim Woodring or Grant Morrison, but Red Hulk doesn’t stir the imagination. I’m waiting on Purple Hulk myself.
Of course, that was Saturday. There weren’t any crowds Friday. None. You could stand at the front of the hall and clearly see all the way down to Artist’s Alley. Pull out a Red-Hulkbuster-Missile and you’d have a clear shot, no collateral damage whatsoever. So yeah, it was dead quiet, spooky quiet, “why the hell did I get on the plane and pay for a room tonight?” quiet. Yeah, that bad. I was not alone in that feeling, from what I could tell on the floor. The Artist’s Alley was about half-populated at the time, but it’s Friday, right? Lots of folks have to work their day jobs, no rest for the wicked. Let’s see what Saturday brings.
I actually managed to run into a friend while I huddled on my side of the shared table, my meager offerings laid out flat on the table because I’d left my stands back at the room. Exchanged greetings, chatted, me feeling strange and small whilst seated. I’m gonna have to take to standing up and working the pitch like that. Yeah. Oh, and about standing up, stand-up displays in particular. My rep for the show told me “No pop-up displays in Artist’s Alley.” You know who the only guy without a display behind him was? Okay, I wasn’t the only one, but lots of artists had big ‘ol eyecatchers. So yeah, I’m gonna know better for next time. But until then, I’m gonna toss a little fish-eye at the guys who told me not to bring a display.
Chatted a bit with Daniel Bradstreet, who has an intriguing graphic style, very heavy on the use of negative space. He had some pages from a project called ROBOT 13 that I’m interested in seeing more of once it hits. I guess some people will remember him from a book called KING, which features a borderline geriatric Elvis impersonator who fights the forces of evil while wielding the Spear of Destiny.
Sitting on the other side of me were the nice folks from THE RED STAR, which I’m a big fan of, so that was nice. Though I wish they’d hurry up and finish the next story arc so they can get a trade out. But I’m a patient guy. I’ve got stuff to read in the meantime. That said, I was hoping that THE RED STAR would be the kind of book that could make the jump from direct market comics to books for a wider audience. And I’m a sucker for the industrial aesthetic that Goss and his crew put out. I mean, there was an entire issue dedicated to two gigantic spacecraft squaring off at point-blank range and Going. At. It. How could I not love that?
Didn’t see too much else that night, just headed out to get some dinner and get back to the room. Oh, and what a dinner it was. See, when you order a hot beef sandwich at The Pantry, you don’t get bread-meat-gravy-bread and eat it like a sandwich. Instead, through the genius of covering-everything-with-gravy-vision, you get bread-meat-bread and gravy. The gravy is hot enough that it instantly turns the white bread into mush. Don’t even think about picking this up with anything but a fork. Just don’t. They also serve a pretty mean cole slaw, and I’m no fan of that, but the Pantry’s is pretty good. Back to the room and reading up a bit on theoretical exo-biology. Oh, don’t worry, it wasn’t all that heavy. And like everything I read, it’ll end up being useful somewhere…I hope.
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Did I Say “Moroccan?” I Meant “Just Plain Rockin’.”
The Figueroa Hotel has been around since the twenties, if memory serves. But I’m pretty sure that the original builders didn’t have the Moroccan remodel that the current owners put the building through. It’s distinctive, that’s for sure. Tons more character than the Holiday Inn that appeared to be the regular convention hotel. I mean, would the Holiday Inn have brick-red interior walls with Moorish-inspired stencils/design details? Hell no they wouldn’t. Nor would they have the awesome beaten tin lamps and adobe tile floors and the Mediterranean-inspired pool that’s just begging to be used in a scene somewhere, luminous sky blue defiantly bright in the settling dusk, colder than March had any right to be in Los Angeles. Yeah, I had to walk another two blocks, but damn this place has character. I can spend a night in a boring and stuffy hotel that’s pretty much immaculate and drives me nuts, or I can spend in a night in a place with some atmosphere, where I can feel like I’m going to see Bowles and Burroughs around the hotel bar, wrapped in smoke and sipping tea the consistency of motor oil. Yeah, tough choice.
Ate at the Pantry twice within twelve hours. Yeah, that’s not a trick for beginners. That’s the advanced class in Greasy Spoon, so consider yourself warned. But like I said, they know how to fix eggs over medium, and their pancakes are fluffy like lead is, so you won’t be needing to hunt down food for a good while. Marched into the South Hall ready to get the word out about STRANGEWAYS, now that there’s something to get out the word about. As it turns out, at least my table-mate Daniel recognized not only my name, but the book itself. Guess that internet blitz actually paid off. Oddly enough, he remembered my reviews back from when I worked at Broken Frontier. Jeez, I don’t really remember those, and they’re parked on my hard drive.
Of course, I was to see STRANGEWAYS recognized as HIGH NOON (the Zuda webcomic that also happens to be about cowboys and werewolves) later in the weekend. So David Gallagher and I can share a chuckle about that. But at least folks had room in their hearts for hearing the gospel of lycanthropes stalking the American frontier.
At 10:00 am, there was a VERY LOUD ANNOUNCEMENT telling us that THE SHOW DOORS ARE NOW OPEN. It was like the word of the Almighty himself announcing the opening of the floodgates for the Flood to purge the world of the un-worthy and un-righteous, so hold onto your halos pure folks, because here it comes.
The Artist’s Alley area began to fill up maybe an hour later. Maybe everyone was up front getting T-Shirts thrown at them by Marvel or getting books signed at Top Cow or burrowing through the dollar bins (got myself a copy of HOWARD THE DUCK #16 aka “The Dread Deadline Doom”) or getting their comics CGC graded. I don’t know where they were, but they weren’t flooding the Artist’s Alley. Though they eventually did get back there, to be fair. Now, it wasn’t even a Wonder-Con size crowd, but it wasn’t anything to sneeze at.
My table-mate, Daniel, seemed to be doing a brisk business in (very-reasonably-priced) sketches and minis and prints, so much so that it seemed he always had pen in hand once things got rolling, up until the close of the day Saturday. Again, not everyone was that lucky, but folks who had something that people wanted found themselves busy.
I was only a little busy, to tell the brutal truth. But at least that was something. And let’s be real, this is not the most receptive crowd, by and large. Wizard traffics in a part of the comics world that I have less and less interest in, so it’s only fair that the crowds they pull return the favor. But even here, even in this safe haven for alternate covers and (wannabe) franchises, I could find folks who wanted a look at my own modest little book.
Okay, most of them were pros who I knew, but still you gotta start somewhere. I met the artist of THE CROOKED MAN, which was the best of the second round of Zuda offerings (and pretty roundly ignored—yes there is no justice). I better remember his name, oh yes, Gabriel Hardman. He’s got a great period style and really understands where the blacks are supposed to go. I dig that. I see a lot of artists who don’t understand where you put the shadows (or that those really should be inked and not left to the colorists). If I see a page that looks like it belongs in a coloring book, I die a little inside.
Speaking of knowing where the blacks should be spotted, I got a chance to talk with Darwyn Cooke for awhile; heard some good news about his creator-owned work that’s currently cooking. While we talked, we looked over a collector’s book filled with Alex Toth artwork, utterly gorgeous TV pitch artwork that’s never going to see proper public showing. Oh, and there was a simply stunning spot illo. that Toth had drawn for a family friend, just a beautiful melding of Art Noveau and Art Deco sensibilities that hit me hard. Comics ain’t for the faint of heart, kids. Just remember that.
Watched Kal-El get his cape signed by various artists. No, really, he had the look and his badge said “Kal-El,” so who am I to argue, right? Superman can’t lie, so it’s gotta be him.
Continued to hand out more preview ashcans and flyers to anyone who’d stand still long enough to receive them. Lots of folks seemed to like the idea that they could read the first chapter online, so my fiendish plan seemed to be coming together. A couple people seemed to even know about the book beforehand.
Of course, one of those knighted few was Mike Sterling, who saw the cover of the book from across the hallway, locked onto it and marched right over to inquire “Matthew Maxwell? Mike Sterling.” He’s also the second best-dressed comics retailer that I know. Okay, James is way out in front, but Mike’s no slouch. At any rate, it’s always good to put a face to the name and bloggery, and he gave me a great deal on some DOOM PATROL issues a couple years ago, so I gotta give him some props for that. And if he heard these words come out of my mouth in person, he’d probably laugh his head off. So yeah, one of the good guys. Got a chance to meet Dorian Wright, he of Postmodern Barney, real briefly, but not much chance to talk. Hell, I didn’t even to get to hand him a copy of the book. Better fix that.
Meeting and talking with folks was half of the reason for me being there (being taken on a gastronomic tour of LA was the other, but more on that later.) Getting the book in plain sight was another. So I was pleasantly surprised to hear “Hello, I’m from [name of major studio redacted] and I’m looking for properties that still have rights attached to them.” Not once, but twice. My reply? “Why certainly I can provide you with a copy in return for a business card not run out of an inkjet printer.” Does this make me a special and unique snowflake with the next NATIONAL TREASURE franchise ahead of me? Nah. It just means I was in their line of sight and they were trolling. Not even trolling so much as gill-netting. But a single copy as an opportunity cost? Yeah, I can roll those dice. I’ll let you know when I can start lighting my stogies with big bills…
Passed out some more review copies of MURDER MOON and some more ashcans. Hopefully the media blitz will hit harder for it. Though I gotta say, I got used to just handing out copies; less for me to carry back too. What else am I missing? Got to talk with Christian “Goss” Gossett of THE RED STAR, who praised my patience for sticking with the book as long as I had (he’s got a good memory, since I started buying copies in 2001.)
Had an…interesting chat with a guy who overheard me muttering about not being able to wear my headphones so I could just chill to some Eno (ANOTHER GREEN WORLD is currently in heavy rotation) instead of listening to the godawful music being piped in from the oversize multimedia blitzkrieg unit at the back of the hall. A little intense, and we didn’t have much to talk about in terms of comics. I mean, sure, THE QUESTION is great, but only when Ditko is laying his hands on, y’know?
Wrapped it at show close, ran into Brian from Khepri.com on the way out, kinda surprised that he was out at this show all the way from Phoenix. Good to see a friendly face, as always. Chatted about the show and business in general until the growling of my stomach, now rebelling at having to digest what was essentially organic plastic with Newman’s Caesar dressing poured on top, forced me out the door.
Crossed Wilshire Blvd. in a light drizzle, parked on the wrong side of the street and jaywalked, marooned on the island while the sprinklers were running. Yeah, not my smartest move. Cold, wet denim is just awful stuff. Clings like a drowned corpse. Yuck. But I made it into The HMS Bounty, which isn’t a ship, but rather a bar on the west side. It stands opposite the old Ambassador hotel (you know, where Robert Kennedy was gunned down by Sirhan Sirhan, who ate his last meal at the Bounty, coincidentally.) Interesting place. Not clogged with hipsters, as it’s not divey enough, but not infested with suits either. Tom Waits once remarked that the Wiltern Theatre was kind of at the corner of Snooty (Wilshire) and Friendly (Western); the Bounty kind of had that same feel. Good fish and chips, too.
Crept back to my room and watched the golden sludge of the 110 Northbound slow to a crawl, even at 11pm on a Saturday night.
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Smoked Milk Ice Cream, I Kid You Not.
Breakfast at The Pantry again. Pacific Dining Car is on the wrong side of the 110 and I wasn’t feeling real adventurous. Besides, breakfast is what the Pantry does best, really. The sound of the bug zapper warming up was sweet, sweet music, nastier and sharper than a neon hum. I watched the cooks ladle enough oil across the grill to power a fleet of Oldsmobile 442s on a cross-country jaunt and reminded myself that I only do this once a year or so. Good thing too, or I’ll need my own cardiologist. And zip code.
Checked out of my room, checked into the show for the last day. I set up my stuff and promptly ignored it, hitting some of the vendors for something to offer up to the kids so they’d forget all about Daddy abandoning them over the weekend. It’s tougher with my son, ‘cause he knows that there’s all kinds of great stuff at comics shows (mostly not comics, according to him). He’d go ga-ga over the Imperial R2 units and the snowtroopers and stuff.
As for the crowd? Sunday was quiet. Like post-hypnotic-suggestion-triggered-assassin-quiet. Got a few folks to pick up some of the ashcans and leave names behind, which I’ll take as additions to my quiet string of little victories.
Truthfully, though, I spent more time talking to Stuart Sayger and Darwyn Cooke than I spent pushing the book. Because there really weren’t many folks to push the book to, on Sunday. Oh, I did get a chance to push a book into the hands of Carla Hewitt (who you may know from Blog and from standing up for a Supergirl that pre-teens can actually read) and talk with her briefly. Oh, and I got a quick schooling in some great romance comics by way of Stuart (Sayger, again) including a well known (at least within Alex Toth circles) story by Toth himself which, while rough in patches was still gorgeous on its own terms. He even managed to put in some real atmosphere and a sense of place in the ten or so pages, though the linework was so heavy and thick that it reminded me of Gilbert Hernandez in places. Gotta find me a copy of that sometime.
And I finally got an opportunity to see some of Darwyn Cooke’s pieces, those featuring his inks over Jack Kirby pencils (among others, including Gene Colan, Neal Adams and even John Buscema). He’d mentioned those at the Kirby appreciation panel at Wonder-Con a couple weeks back and I’d been curious as to how they turned out. Pretty darn good, really. But like I’ve said before, I’m far more interested in seeing what he’s capable of when working on his own material. I appreciate and love the past works as much as the next guy (maybe more), but you’ve got to look forward as well. The best isn’t all behind us, not by a longshot.
Decided that there wasn’t going to be much more worth sticking around for and called it a day a bit early. Besides, I’d have to cross town and get to the airport somehow. Luckily I had a friend in town with wheels, so that fixed one problem, but sorta created another. What to do with the intervening hours that I’d saved by getting a ride instead of bussing it?
Easy. It was time for Brazilian barbeque. You know, where you sit at the table and they bring spits of freshly-roasted meats to you, slicing pieces off until you beg for mercy? It’s a good way to kill an hour. I recommend the tri-tip, ribeye and sausage most heartily. I had them stop by for seconds, thirds, even. Since they use fairly small cuts of meat, it’s entirely possible to get a good brown crust on the outside and still have the inside quite rare, which is a trick I can’t manage most of the time (I settle for medium rare at best at home). Just so good. I wanted to ensure that I would get to the airport and not even be able to look at any of the awful airport food court offerings. Mission accomplished.
However, we weren’t quite done. On the way down to the airport, we stopped at Mateo’s Ice Cream on Sepulveda, in the southern reaches of Culver City (I think.) Ice Cream straight from Oaxaca, Mexico, including such exotic flavors as Yellow Cherry, Passion fruit sorbet and Leche Quemada (at least that’s how I remember the name). Leche Quemada is smoked milk. It’s a regular sweet cream base but is imbued with deeply smoky flavor. It’s like eating a creamy, frozen wisp of smoke. Utterly, totally unexpected. And far too strong for me to eat much of, though I bet it pairs well with something like a coffee or maybe even a rum. I stuck with a passion fruit/mango blend, which was perfect for not only filling in any cracks left unfilled by the Parade of Meat, but cleansing the palate as well. Perfect.
The rest of the evening, however, was not perfect. Arrive early for what was supposed to be an 8:50 flight to find that it was a 9:20 flight. Not so bad. Only by the time I got through security and to the gate, it was a 9:35 flight. By the time I sit down and fire up the iPod, it was a 9:50 flight. Ultimately, there was a 10:00 pm flight to Sacramento that arrived just before my flight did, so late were we. Cursed the luggage carousel that wouldn’t spit up my luggage. Cursed the shuttle bus that took 20 minutes to get to the traffic island where I was freezing in the wind. Muttered the whole way back home, in bed at 1am, only about two hours later than I should have, with all said and done.
Dreamed, but not of Los Angeles and its sky blue pools.