DAY THREE – CONT'D
After the Dean Koontz lovefest, Ben decided to go back down to the
exhibit hall, while Sam and I went over to one of the smaller meeting
rooms to see a panel consisting of the editor and some of the artists
and writers that worked for Mad Magazine in the 60’s.
We were a little bit anxious about the crowd situation that would be
waiting for us, because of an incident we had observed the day before.
The Convention Center’s smaller meeting rooms are located down huge
hallways on the second floor, and when people line up for events, that
line has to snake down the hallway, take a 90 degree left turn down a
horizontal passageway, then take another hard right down an outer
hallway that’s serves no entrance traffic. Consequently, if left to its
own devices, when the line makes its first 90 degree turn, it runs
across the busy entrance hallway and blocks any through traffic that’s
innocently trying to reach rooms further down the hall. In order to
address this hall-blockage issue, the crack Comicon logistical team has
come up with a traffic-direction system. They put a clearly-marked break
in the line at the first juncture, then resume the line on the other
side of the hallway, thus keeping the main hallway clear for through
traffic. As the line starts to move, Comicon personnel, much like
traffic cops, stop the main flow of traffic, then allow some side
traffic to make its way across the break.
As we all know, waiting your turn is the glue that holds society
together, and this carefully orchestrated hallway traffic direction is
designed to prevent the human gridlock that is the first step toward
Armageddon.
So on that previous day it was probably a mistake in judgment to hand
the grave responsibility of hallway monitor to a volunteer that appeared
to understand the mechanics of the process, but had lost sight of its
purpose. This particular lady (whom we’ll call HM) stopped the main
hallway traffic in preparation to letting folks on the far side of the
line break across, then was faced with the realization that the line
wasn’t really moving forward and therefore she couldn’t immediately move
folks across the hallway. At this point, there were two ways she could
approach the situation:
1.
Realize that there had been a miscalculation, and let the main hallway
traffic resume.
2.
Decide that, since the purpose of stopping the main hallway traffic was
to let the side traffic through, keep the main traffic stopped until
such time as that purpose could be fulfilled; no matter how long it
takes or how large a lynch mob forms.
Unfortunately, HM chose door # 2, and the resultant crowd dynamic wasn’t
pretty. HM kept shouting that everyone must wait behind the line she had
drawn in the dirt, while more and more people accumulated behind that
line. Sam and I happened to have been caught near The Front, and we were
trapped as the crowd behind us kept pushing forward, unaware that a
Comicon volunteer who had seen 300 way too many times was determined that none should pass. Some
folks at the head of the crowd tried to reason with HM, but because they
were making their well-thought out points at the top of their lungs, and
by this time carrying torches and clubs, HM wasn’t receptive. Her
authority was now being questioned; if she relented, it wouldn’t be long
before we were all back living in caves.
Finally, someone got fed up and decided to simply walk across the great
divide in direct defiance. That’s when we discovered that HM still had
untapped reserves of lung-power that we couldn’t have imagined. She
screamed at the rebel to STOP RIGHT THERE. And he did, though it wasn’t
due as much to intimidation as to the fact that all the calcium in his
spine had been sonically pulverized. He was still trying to claw his way
to the other side while HM stood over him, reading the riot act.
The crowd was really getting
ugly now… the Bat-signal was shining on the ceiling and you could tell a
few guys were trying their darndest to turn big and green. Fortunately,
in the nick of time, a Convention Center staffer showed up, quickly
assessed the situation, turned to the mob, and yelled “COME ON ACROSS!”
The crowd broke, HM dashed to the side, and in seconds order had been
restored. It’s surprising how quickly people calm down when they get
their way.
I was curious what happened to HM, but I lost sight of her. I never saw
her in person again, though the next day her picture was on the side of
the chocolate milk cartons at all the snack bars.
This entire flashback was just to explain that, as Sam and I made our
way to the panel of Mad Magazine guys, which was being held in the same upstairs area as
yesterday’s debacle, we were concerned we might encounter the same
situation. We didn’t have to worry… the prior panel in our destination
room consisted of comic-book letterers talking about their craft. In
general, letterers don’t draw a big crowd at the Comicon unless their
chosen medium is human skin, so the room wasn’t very full. We were
allowed to come in and sit down, and we just kept our seats when that
panel broke up and the Mad
panel convened. It was a
good thing, too, because the room filled up to hear stories from really
old guys who have made a living being juvenile.
From there, we connected with Ben via cell phone and met him back in the
exhibit hall.
About cell phones: anyone who complains about how pervasive they are on
American streets and sidewalks hasn’t been to the Comicon, where even
someone who talks to himself
does it with a cell phone. There’s no public paging at the Comicon, so
the only way to reunite with someone is to either meet at a pre-arranged
place and time, or give them a call on their cell and find out where
they are. The pre-arranged meeting method is iffy at best; in a venue
with a population of 17 billion (and growing), it’s tough making a
specific time and space
coincide. Better to get on the phone and scream “WHERE ARE YOU NOW?”
repeatedly until you plow into each other. So in the exhibit hall,
everybody’s on their cell.
There’s enough microwaves bouncing around the room to thaw a 20 pound
turkey.
All material copyright 2009 Chuck Thornton