Not so bad--in the cool morning, the bovines' produce has yet to work its magic. My gross-out experience was to come 40 minutes later, when making a desperate bathroom stop at a Burger King. Skip this part if you envisioned a more pleasant con report.
Fast food places are mostly useless for eating, but perfect for rest stops. Except in this case. On the way into a stall, I noticed that some savage had pulled one of the toilets up, breaking its mounting bolts so it sat on the tile at an angle, next to the waste line it should be connected to. As I sat down to ponder how this could have happened, a group of young idiots entered the men's room, babbling to amuse themselves. The dimmest one went into the clearly unusable stall, and started urinating. Alarmed, I tried to figure out where to put my feet when the puddle made it's way towards me. Luckily it never did. Even this guy's friends, who'd just finished using working toilets were shocked when they saw him. "Dude-- I can't believe you pissed in the broken commode." "Huh?" Then I hear the jangling toolbelt of the plumber who's just arrived to fix things. "Why did you just do that?" "Oh, sorry... I didn't know it was broke." "How could you miss it?" I expected next to hear the dull sound of a monkeywrench go into the kid's skull. As I emerged, the brain trust had left, and the plumber was furiously getting his tools together. Me: "I can't believe that idiot." Plumber: "What the hell was he thinkin'...? Some people just need to be taken outside and have the shit beaten out of 'em." On that note I walked out to the counter and bought the Justice League toy offered by BK: a Superman with a fiery meteorite. I left Burger King with the wisdom of the plumber echoing in my head.

I arrived later at the Moscone Center in the cold and rain. Briefly shocked into stasis by the parking rates, I recovered and went in to set up. It looked fairly busy for a rainy Friday. Carrying all my stuff, I almost tripped over a remote-controlled tank that some gentleman is piloting around the room. People keep saying Hi Parker and hey congratulations on your movie dealthats ...okay, I can't make out what's being said to me, I'm so tired. I finally set up my Interman banner and then people approach to buy books. I get a call on my cell phone, which is difficult to take because my cherished mate Jill dropped the hell out of it a few days earlier when it was entrusted to her.

People start coming up and asking if my commission list is open. I forgot that folks in the Bay area are big original art lovers, and that I always end up doing lots of sketches. The first is for Dan Brereton's son Hunter, who's just starting a new little sketchbook. I decide to not embarrass him by mentioning that I have the print his dad did of him reading comics on the potty. Instead I draw him a Frankenstein monster to begin the book. A firefighter named Mike asks for a fireman piece. I'm struggling to remember how to draw a helmet when my makeshift phone rings again. It's the Phonesmasher, just back from the doctor with a new ultrasound. It seems the Greater One Who Will Replace Me is in a nice low position, and from this point on could be born at any time. Now I can't stop thinking of how many miles away I am if she goes into labor. It took me seven hours to get here. Why didn't I fly? I tell others about this, and everyone agrees. If in the future my daughter found out I was at a comics convention when she was born, I would officially be the Lamest Dad on Earth.
Trying not to imagine that scenario, I walk over to check in on Matthew Clark. He shows me some beautiful pages he's drawn for Marvel's upcoming Inhumans miniseries. We talk a lot of trash about fellow cartoonists who aren't around to defend themselves. Ford Gilmore comes sauntering up, happy that he can now talk about another Hollywood deal that he was involved with-- bringing Paul Dini's Jingle Belle to Revolution Studios. Then DelphiFora personality Charlie Chu appears, and we grill him on the Stan Lee hero show. Recently, Ford, Janet Harvey and others were egging Charlie on to be a contestant in Stan's Superhero Reality show, where you have to come up with a new character and be judged by The Man. I myself was eager to contribute a costume design. Chu informs us that now the show involves contestants actually making the comic that their hero would appear in, and not just running around wigging out in costume, which is what he was in it for. If the show is going to look at the lives of aspiring comics creators, I predict a swift death. Who would be interested in that kind of subject?

A Mystery Solved: For years I drew stories for DC's Big Book series, and I mostly dealt with then-editor Jim Higgins. But he was a disembodied voice on the phone, he couldn't exist--and yet there he is! We catch up and talk about his recent anthology New Thing. I work hard to memorize his features in case he vanishes into the ether again. Which he did, not picking up the book he paid for. Now I gotta mail it.

I then meet Sequential Tart's Kady Mae, also the first lady of Alternate Reality Comics in Las Vegas. She has to explain that connection to me, as I spend as little time in Vegas as possible. I'm not a gamblin' man, and I don't like the desert. In Katherine's ideal world, 100 degrees farenheit would be the average-- she loves it out there in Lizard Land. We agree to disagree on our worldviews and I will eventually suffer through that grid city again to make it out to her husband Ralph Mathieu's famous comics store. Actually I do really like Mt. Charleston outside of Vegas, but I was too sleep-deprived to remember stuff like that.
Stopped by Bud Plant, and met Bud Plant. I made sure he knew about my book, and somehow made it out of his show-store only parting with 20 bucks. The selection of books he carries is unparalleled, and much of the money I make at shows goes right back to him.

Suddenly the intercom announces that the show is over. It's already seven o' clock? I'm groggy and I throw things at people who suggest going out that night. I keep asking various locals about affordable hotels in the area. Steve Leialoha tells me how to find some, but I forget his helpful advice instantly. I drive around aimlessly for how long I don't know, seeing shark billboards, and ultimately find the same Best Western I stayed in during APE. A quick call to make sure I have no progeny yet, and I sleep and sleep and sleep.

SATURDAY...
Is a totally different day, thanks to Sleep! I enter the show early, whistling and tap-dancing. Micah Wright, writer of Stormwatch: Team Achilles, gives me a Hulk HeroClix figure for some reason. I don't play the game, but I think it's one of those unfair games like Magic where you can buy more powerful pieces to have the edge.
Ford introduces me to Howard Chaykin, and I talk to him about the illustrations he recently did for the McSweeney's anthology edited by Michael Chabon. It's the kind of assignment that essentially doesn't exist anymore and Chaykin was jazzed to do it. I like to think I know a lot about illustrators of fiction from the 30's to the 50's, but a few minutes listening to Howard makes clear that I don't. He then shows me photocopies of an upcoming book for DC, and it looks great. Pal Peter Rose appears and helps me look at the pages.
Peter offers me room to crash at his house for the night, so I'm happy to not worry about board again. I put his phone number into my misshapen cell, and don't think to write it down anywhere. Why should I? I'm not going to lose my phone later tonight after all...
I stop by to catch up with Scott Hudlow, who's selling some valuable books. He recently hosted a show in Bakersfield that Lieber and I attended. This weekend isn't as happy for him. It seems that Thursday night after the retailers left the building, someone made off with a box of Silver Age comics, loaded with early Spiderman and Avengers. A few thousand bucks, easily. So store owners, collectors-- be on the lookout for someone trying to unload some vintage books all of a sudden-like. You can reach Scott HERE if you have any leads. The sage words of The Plumber return to mind...

People keep coming back behind the table wanting to sit with me, and it's not for my sparkling conversation. Directly across the aisle are some ladies who I'm told are very prominent in the branch of entertainment known as "porn". They're pulling crowds that rival Travis Charest's and Jim Lee's. As a result, it's really packed in Artist's Alley, and that's usually not the case. But no amount of white noise can drown out the guy on my left. I won't name him, but he works these shows like an auctioneer, luring in people with sketches of the popular character of the minute, and breaking out chummy shtick on command. I appreciate a good interlocutor, and I'll never begrudge anyone trying to make a living with their craft, but this guy is LOUD. And CONSTANT. Colorist Moose Baumann empathizes with me at one point. "Yeah, I had to sit next to him at a show one time. After a few hours you're ready to put a bullet through your head." I usually offer people walking by a free sketch on an information card to promote my book, but something about being next to the guy killed my drive to quietly pull people in. I guess because subtle doesn't work in that environment. Luckily people came over to check me out anyway, largely so they could get a good vantage on the porn stars, but hey I'm not complaining.

NIGHT

The show wraps up, and I head over to The Argent hotel, where most attendees are. I sit down with Peter and Katherine, and we're soon joined by Keiron Dwyer and Rick Remender. Everyone's arguing about whether Anime is worth a damn, and eating lots of the super-salted peanuts the bar uses to sell more beer. I congratulate Rick on a good job writing Doll and Creature, and he puts on his glasses to look professorial as he talks about his writing. Keiron looks at his empty glass as if it should have refilled itself by now. I peek around the corner and see the fine folks I'm to join for dinner, and tell everyone I'll see them later.
Forming a gang in the lobby is DC West-coast saleschamp Mike Scigliano, owner of Atlantis Fantasyworld in Santa Cruz Joe Ferrara, and some upstanding gents from another Northern California store. Next thing I know, Joe and I are racing off in a cab heading to the waterfront. It's like travelling through time-- Joe points out bars where he used to perform (guitar and singing) back in the day. And he feels a little bad that he's missing a show tonight he was supposed to head. But a few minutes later we're all shoving bread and seafood in our mouths at Dante's Seafood Grille, and no one regrets anything. That place was great, and inexpensive despite being at the docks. Later in the dinner, the young guys mention interest in starting a new store, based on what they consider a really sweet location. Joe proceeded to school them in everything they needed to consider, and this was quite a thing to see. He wasn't discouraging, just pragmatic and detailed. The boys were taking in as much as they could and I half-expected someone to start jotting notes on a menu.
We found a van-cab to take back to the Argent, though the cabbie was very adamant that he was only allowed to take 5 people in the van, and we had six. It took much pleading and promises of a nice tip before he let one of the guys sit on the floor. After that he was a good sport, and talked with us most of the way. At some point on the discussion of family, he left himself wide open by mentioning that he had SIX children. "Well they can't ride in this cab!" zinged Ferrara, sending us into hysterics. I was so amused that I didn't notice my cell phone making a break for it and escaping my pocket. Back in the hotel I searched my backpack and pockets repeatedly before giving up on the piece of junk. Surely this would be the time I'd get a phone call about hospitals and maternity wards.

It wouldn't be a Bay-area convention if I didn't end up cramming a bunch of people in my car and getting lost somewhere in San Francisco, so of course it happened again. Some of the DC guys and their pals wanted to go out to Comix Experience and check out the annual party, so we stuffed Mike in back with the comics and took off. As with the rest of my driving in the city, I kept seeing billboards for Finding Nemo with the neat-looking shark on it. On the ride over one of the subjects that came up was Ben Affleck's limited acting ability. Then everyone admitted that he was convincing in Chasing Amy. So ultimately we agreed that he had no range, but could pull off being a comic book artist. Think on that one.
Soon we arrived at Brian Hibbs' famous store, where an excellent spread was provided. Borrowing phones I made sure that I didn't have offspring, and could then enjoy myself. I couldn't help but notice that the store was down to one copy of my book and needed to reorder.
There was a neat handmade display for League of Extraordinary Gentlemen in the window that was funky and appropriate for the neighborhood. I had forgotten how large the place was, you could play ball in there. I pored through the Art of Hellboy, wondering if anyone would ever give me a copy for some reason. Many party goers later found themselves waking up with a copy of Tilting at Windmills, IDW's collection of Hibbs Rants originally published in Comics Games and Retailer.
Since Hibbs is now technically a character published by IDW, we discussed the possibility of a Hibbs/CSI crossover. His comics knowledge could prove invaluable to forensics specialists in solving a crime (they could find out who snagged Scott Hudlow's box of Silver Age, for example). He seemed to think such a book was unlikely, and it might be. Maybe a Hibbs walk-on in the next 30 Days of Night.
I wanted to go to Isotope too that night since they were going to be staying up until 5 am, but everyone in my carpool was as depleted as I was. Back to the Argent, and sweet sweet slumber.

I get started on people's sketchbooks-- not much time left to finish and get them back to everyone. And we all know how soon you'll get your book back if you leave it with the artist. As usual, everyone promises me they'll send me a jpeg of what I drew so I can put it on my website, and then they don't. Except the loyal Anna Hybsier, who sent me one of my own characters. That weekend I met Curtis Broadway and his wife, who were sitting down the row. Curtis had a neat minicomic called Dr. Ready, but his most endearing characteristic was that he brought a banjo. Even better, when I requested "Foggy Mountain Breakdown", he went right into it. So we rattled on about Bluegrass for a bit. He must have inspired others, because later I saw inker Al Gordon sitting with a guitar. It's that Bay Area scene, man.

I go chat a little with Dave Stevens and pick up a copy of his latest book of prints. Then later I see one of the pieces, an Aurora cover from the 80's (is that redundant?) in original form, in the hands of collector Jim Reid. I know Dave doesn't exactly give those covers away, and I whistle in awe.
Vertigo's Will Dennis and Every Other Comics' Geoff Johns stop by the table. We're all comparing the great cities of America, and somehow get on the subject of how the New York establishment is considering housing the homeless: refitting retired cruise ships to park in the harbor and keep the street people on them. Who knows if it will ever happen, but who can resist the thought of an old Pacific Princess full of rummies and street preachers? The shuffleboard courts...

My reverie is ruined by Mr. Peopleperson on the left hamming it up with the rubes. Worse was some of the people he attracted, because many would try to out-loud him with equally snappy repartee. At least he made a funny once in a while, they never did. I thought again of what the Plumber said. The aforementioned Janet Harvey came by and took the guest seat for a while, and I congratulated her on Jungle Girl from IDW. We talked shop as I worked on commissions, and when she decided it was time to head out, artist John Heebink sat down and worked on his own commission. It was naughty, whoever it was. John sometimes draws naughty things under psuedonyms. I think it's okay to say that... I really should run these reports by people first before they go up. Eventually Tomm Coker, whose table it actually was, sat down. And then the show ended.
Especially lucky for me later, Tomm decided to ride back to L.A. with me that night, because I was beat. We spent a good hour talking about the White Stripes and the Pixies, slagging and praising artists, and then at some point I started seeing double images of the roadsigns. This is an indicator of exhaustion. If he hadn't taken over driving I'd have ended up in the cattlefield. Instead, we made it back safely to the urban cattlefield of Los Angeles.

Candid photos courtesy Ford Gilmore.