FRIDAY
According to the National Weather Service, San Diego is, on the average, cool and dry in July with reasonably low humidity. However, thanks to my clean living (Or at least filthy living that I can never remember clearly), Your Vengeful God is My Buddy, and He knew that a in a strange city surrounded by tens of thousands of strangers, nothing would make a Boston Boy like me feel at home quite like having my sack humidly glued to my leg all Goddamned day.
It was in the nineties and humid the entire time I was there, and since July is generally mild in San Diego, the city fathers apparently decided that things like air conditioning only happen to other communities. Which did take a bit of the shine off of the whole Comic-Con experience. Because girls in vinyl fetish wear equals hot, but girls in vinyl fetish wear with sweat pouring down their backs into the crack of their ass equals biological warfare. No matter how big a geek you are, it’s hard to get a boner over Batgirl when she smells like an airport bar stool and yeast.
We began Friday by waiting in the blazing, humid sun for the shuttle to the convention center… and waiting… and waiting. Several grey, nondescript shuttles full of costumed geeks passed, but they did not stop, which was for the best, since they looked like a Department of Corrections transport bus full of super villians to The Raft. You know, provided you believe that a super villain’s weaknesses are carbs and sucrose, and that you can subdue them by withholding Clearasil.
My girlfriend finally dragged us out of the long line to hail a cab, despite my protestations that, even though we were in line with a large portion of the Justice League, watching Pikachu keel over from sunstroke and pitch a grand mal convulsion would be the only real justice we saw all weekend. We wound up sharing the cab with a couple of people who, we discovered after my girl dropped a particularly vicious Pixar joke (Think Cars, Owen Wilson and “tailpipe”), worked for the newly-reopened Disney 2D animation studios. They were pleasant to share a ride with, and we learned the following two exclusive tidbits of gossip:
- The Disney in-house screening of the first twenty minutes of Rapunzel were precisely as exciting and gripping as you would expect a story about a girl locked in a room doing nothing but growing her hair for twenty years would be.
- Disney CEO Bob Iger washes down his lunch of the blood of innocents with the frightened tears of premature babies before greenlighting movies like Rapunzel and gratefully letting the head of Pixar fuck him in the mouth.
Editor’s note: One of the above bits of gossip is a completely accurate representation of what these people told me about a Disney project; the other is merely a hyperbolic repetition of a personal characterization they told me, which may or may not be true. I have personally never met Bob Iger, so regardless of what I was told, I can neither confirm nor deny whether or not the man even has a mouth to fuck.
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Tomorrow: Friday’s Panel Discussions, Cheerleaders You Can’t Beat to Death, The Shiny Thing In Vincent Vega’s Briefcase is Quentin Tarantino’s Ego, and Fisting Vader
[tags]Nerd Prom, San Diego, Comic-Con, Disney, Rapunzel, Bob Iger, Pixar, dark humor[/tags]
