raul grau
Oct 20, 2005, 10:15 am
<img src="http://www.comixfan.com/xfan/images/columns/fliacbs.jpg" hspace=10 align=left border=0 alt="Fear and Loathing in a Comic Book Store logo">By A.W. Pemberton
Fear and Loathing @ Supanova Sydney 2005
Editor’s note: The following is an account of the alleged events that took place at the Sydney Supanova Pop Culture Expo in October 2005. Pemberton’s actual memories of the event are extremely hazy, and are therefore highly unreliable. This account is mainly drawn from a mass of scribbled notes Pemberton discovered in his jacket pocket some days later. In the meantime, Pemberton and fellow staff writer Mitch Brown have had their privileges suspended whille their alleged crimes committed in the name of Comixfan are investigated.
I was already feeling a bit queasy from the train ride when all the sights, sounds, and smells of comic people confronted me. The first thing I laid my eyes upon was a fat man-child of about eighteen with his mother exiting the building, followed by three gigantically obese and hairy older gentlemen, who filled whole lanes with their girth. I became afraid. If this trend continued, I was in for one hell of a day.
I then recalled my earlier commitment to my editor, Duke. He had made me promise to get total coverage of the event, and to behave with honour and integrity. Total coverage was a problem, as I didn’t plan on staying long. The best I could come up with was partial coverage. The half-assed approach to journalism. Why not? It’s the current trend in journalism today.
I turned up late to all the forums attended; such was my commitment to partial coverage. What surprised me the most was not any of the answers given by the speakers, but the elegance and poise of the questions from the audience. People who looked like they came straight from a Nerd Cave were asking well thought out and sometimes very interesting questions, showing far more intelligence than their dress sense would indicate.
Mark Waid’s forum was enlightening, as he spoke at length about his collaboration with Grant Morrison, Geoff Johns and Greg Rucka on DC’s Infinite Crisis. He told of how each of the four brought something different to the table in regards to putting the whole story arc together; Morrison’s massive imagination, Johns’ knowledge of DC history, Rucka’s ability to bring a "street level" feeling to stories, and Waid’s own great passion for the characters.
During artist Nicola Scott’s forum, a high pitched scream went up from behind the stage area, followed by a great round of applause. I assumed that a welcome murder had been committed, probably of some annoying D-list celebrity. The crowd seemed pleased, so that was good enough for me.
I met up with Mitch Brown some time after 3pm. Mitch seemed to have aged greatly in the few months since I had last seen him. I asked him if he suspected some kind of poisoning, similar to that suffered by Ukrainian Prime Minister Viktor Yushenko. He agreed that he was suspicious, but could prove nothing. "Dioxins," he said, "Apparently it will get better after a while. With the help of medication, of course." He grinned broadly as he produced a large bag of pills.
"That can’t be legal." I muttered.
"What are you implying? Are you trying to sully my reputation?" snapped Mitch, as he shoveled a handful of pills into his mouth.
"No no, of course not."
"Good. Want some?"
"Not right now. I had some of my own medication not long ago."
There was an announcement over the loudspeaker that Jason Rand (writer of Small Gods) would be holding a forum soon. "Sounds like a hot ticket," I said to Mitch, who agreed readily. However, due to the confusing names given to each of the forum areas, we found ourselves at the wrong end of the complex, at some kind of sick cosplay awards. "We should get out of here," I said urgently, "Exposure to this kind of **** is not healthy." Mitch was already looking unwell. "Yeah. I think I’m getting the Fear."
We got the hell out of there, and still managed to catch most of the Rand forum. Poor Jason was struggling, due to the fact that the audience refused point blank to ask him questions. It was a great confrontation, a battle of wills. I had some questions, but thought it best to abstain, so as not to interrupt the gross spectacle. Occasionally, an audience member, unable to stand the tension any longer, would relent and ask something.
Sometime later, after Mitch had disappeared somewhere, I realised that I was in possession of his credit card. I thought it was strange that I didn’t remember him giving it to me. "What would Mitch do in a situation like this?" I thought to myself, and promptly started towards the nearest stall. A pang of guilt went through me as I forged Mitch’s signature at the checkout, but it quickly subsided. Hell, how did I know that the bastard hadn’t picked my pocket earlier and done the same thing? It was too much of a risk not to do it.
After the day was over, we joined some of Mitch’s friends at the bar. On the big screen was Funniest Home Videos, showing a clip of a poodle on its hind legs attacking a man, both of them wearing boxing gloves. In a drunken haze, Mitch’s friend Luke commented "That’s classic. That’s Australia." After the sights I’d seen that day, I understood what he meant perfectly. This country, along with the rest of the developed world, has become a perverse spectacle with no meaning or relevance. Mindless garbage for its own sake. I had been celebrating it all day. I turned to Mitch, but he wasn’t listening. He was deep in conversation, extolling the virtues of Wooki porn and cosmetic testicle separation. Outside, an aging couple wearing matching beige outfits power-walked past. "I wish I was Beige," said Luke. With this, I decided that he truly was a man of wisdom, and I knew his words would haunt me forever.
<center><hr width=75%></center>
A.W. Pemberton claims innocence on all charges.
<center><hr width=75%></center>
The opinions expressed in this column are solely those of the writer, and are not reflective of Comixfan or its other staff in general.
Fear and Loathing @ Supanova Sydney 2005
Editor’s note: The following is an account of the alleged events that took place at the Sydney Supanova Pop Culture Expo in October 2005. Pemberton’s actual memories of the event are extremely hazy, and are therefore highly unreliable. This account is mainly drawn from a mass of scribbled notes Pemberton discovered in his jacket pocket some days later. In the meantime, Pemberton and fellow staff writer Mitch Brown have had their privileges suspended whille their alleged crimes committed in the name of Comixfan are investigated.
I was already feeling a bit queasy from the train ride when all the sights, sounds, and smells of comic people confronted me. The first thing I laid my eyes upon was a fat man-child of about eighteen with his mother exiting the building, followed by three gigantically obese and hairy older gentlemen, who filled whole lanes with their girth. I became afraid. If this trend continued, I was in for one hell of a day.
I then recalled my earlier commitment to my editor, Duke. He had made me promise to get total coverage of the event, and to behave with honour and integrity. Total coverage was a problem, as I didn’t plan on staying long. The best I could come up with was partial coverage. The half-assed approach to journalism. Why not? It’s the current trend in journalism today.
I turned up late to all the forums attended; such was my commitment to partial coverage. What surprised me the most was not any of the answers given by the speakers, but the elegance and poise of the questions from the audience. People who looked like they came straight from a Nerd Cave were asking well thought out and sometimes very interesting questions, showing far more intelligence than their dress sense would indicate.
Mark Waid’s forum was enlightening, as he spoke at length about his collaboration with Grant Morrison, Geoff Johns and Greg Rucka on DC’s Infinite Crisis. He told of how each of the four brought something different to the table in regards to putting the whole story arc together; Morrison’s massive imagination, Johns’ knowledge of DC history, Rucka’s ability to bring a "street level" feeling to stories, and Waid’s own great passion for the characters.
During artist Nicola Scott’s forum, a high pitched scream went up from behind the stage area, followed by a great round of applause. I assumed that a welcome murder had been committed, probably of some annoying D-list celebrity. The crowd seemed pleased, so that was good enough for me.
I met up with Mitch Brown some time after 3pm. Mitch seemed to have aged greatly in the few months since I had last seen him. I asked him if he suspected some kind of poisoning, similar to that suffered by Ukrainian Prime Minister Viktor Yushenko. He agreed that he was suspicious, but could prove nothing. "Dioxins," he said, "Apparently it will get better after a while. With the help of medication, of course." He grinned broadly as he produced a large bag of pills.
"That can’t be legal." I muttered.
"What are you implying? Are you trying to sully my reputation?" snapped Mitch, as he shoveled a handful of pills into his mouth.
"No no, of course not."
"Good. Want some?"
"Not right now. I had some of my own medication not long ago."
There was an announcement over the loudspeaker that Jason Rand (writer of Small Gods) would be holding a forum soon. "Sounds like a hot ticket," I said to Mitch, who agreed readily. However, due to the confusing names given to each of the forum areas, we found ourselves at the wrong end of the complex, at some kind of sick cosplay awards. "We should get out of here," I said urgently, "Exposure to this kind of **** is not healthy." Mitch was already looking unwell. "Yeah. I think I’m getting the Fear."
We got the hell out of there, and still managed to catch most of the Rand forum. Poor Jason was struggling, due to the fact that the audience refused point blank to ask him questions. It was a great confrontation, a battle of wills. I had some questions, but thought it best to abstain, so as not to interrupt the gross spectacle. Occasionally, an audience member, unable to stand the tension any longer, would relent and ask something.
Sometime later, after Mitch had disappeared somewhere, I realised that I was in possession of his credit card. I thought it was strange that I didn’t remember him giving it to me. "What would Mitch do in a situation like this?" I thought to myself, and promptly started towards the nearest stall. A pang of guilt went through me as I forged Mitch’s signature at the checkout, but it quickly subsided. Hell, how did I know that the bastard hadn’t picked my pocket earlier and done the same thing? It was too much of a risk not to do it.
After the day was over, we joined some of Mitch’s friends at the bar. On the big screen was Funniest Home Videos, showing a clip of a poodle on its hind legs attacking a man, both of them wearing boxing gloves. In a drunken haze, Mitch’s friend Luke commented "That’s classic. That’s Australia." After the sights I’d seen that day, I understood what he meant perfectly. This country, along with the rest of the developed world, has become a perverse spectacle with no meaning or relevance. Mindless garbage for its own sake. I had been celebrating it all day. I turned to Mitch, but he wasn’t listening. He was deep in conversation, extolling the virtues of Wooki porn and cosmetic testicle separation. Outside, an aging couple wearing matching beige outfits power-walked past. "I wish I was Beige," said Luke. With this, I decided that he truly was a man of wisdom, and I knew his words would haunt me forever.
<center><hr width=75%></center>
A.W. Pemberton claims innocence on all charges.
<center><hr width=75%></center>
The opinions expressed in this column are solely those of the writer, and are not reflective of Comixfan or its other staff in general.