Mom came through the door and proudly passed me a homemade book.
“Look what Mama kept all these years. It must be 20-years-old,” she exclaims.
It’s a book I made back in kindergarten. I laughed while flipping through it. With crude drawings that look like blocks; I told stories about my school, my teacher, my friends, and my family. I somehow distinctly remember drawing the picture of the school swing-set.
Brian glanced at the book and decided to speak up with a hint of sarcasm.
“I wish Mom kept the things I made when I was little.”
“Mama kept this, not Mom. I remember drawing a picture for Mom when I was 4 and giving it to her. The next day I found it in the bathroom in the trashcan.”
“I never threw that awa –” Mom is cut off by Brian.
“Oh yeah? When I was little, Dad accidentally stepped on my favorite toy car and broke it!”
“Pshh, that’s nothing. When I was little, Dad purposely took a hammer to my favorite toy monster truck! You remember that: He claimed he was going to ‘fix’ it in the backyard while I watched from the window. I smiled at him, and he just hammered it into fragments.”
Mom conceded with a sigh while my brother and I laughed. Only Brian and I would take a moment that should be sweet, and turn it into a sarcastic game trying to one-up each other.
By the way: I win.
Usually those in poverty try to become successful and do what they can in hopes that their children will never have to go through the hardships that they had to. But then you have parents such as these who got into an argument over which gang their child should join. I sincerely hope that they lose custody of their child. The kid deserves a better future than the one the parents are trying to instill.
Droves of people walked out of the convention. It’s chaotic to cross the street and there’s people trying to give away free stuff; we always replied, “Trying to quit,” as a way of saying no thanks. We approached a sidewalk and we’re stopped by two guys who clearly aren’t there for Comic Con.
“Oh shit! You’re from Naruto!” one of them exclaimed to Eric. “You’re . . . uh . . . .” he trailed off trying to remember the name of the character.
“Pein!” Eric informed him.
“Yeah! Dude, let me take a picture with you! Fuckin awesome!” The guy pulled out his cellphone and handed it to his friend. “Let’s do a pose — like you’re beating me up!”
Eric, Robert, and I chuckled at the guy’s request — mostly because he looks like a hardcore body builder, yet is acting like an excited kid more fit in the convention than coming from a jog around Downtown. Eric stood next to the guy and posed as if he’s shooting a fireball at the guy, who reacted by throwing himself halfway into the street as if he was hit. The guy’s friend quickly snapped the picture.
“Thanks a lot, man!” the guy beamed, grateful.
“Yeah, that was fun! Not a lot want to do a cool pose like that,” replied Eric.
The three of us continued down the sidewalk and passed by a bar. A drunk man at the front spoke up to Eric.
“Hey, you’re from that anime . . . Narodo or something,” he slurs.
“Naruto!” Eric corrected him.
“Yeah, man. Hey, are you old enough to drink?”
Eric smiled, oblivious that the drunk is coming on to him. I felt it was my time to interject.
“Nah, man, we’re all 13.”
The drunk gave us a bewildered look while we continued walking. Heroic music from an old-school Japanese martial art flick began to play as the sun went down over the horizon. We’re paused in mid-stride and the credits begin to roll.
There’s a huge group of us with our faces painted like the Joker running around Downtown outside the convention; the Joker is having us complete tasks for him. In reality we’re taking part in a very elaborate scavenger hunt. Planes are involved with vapor trails giving us clues; there’s clowns in official suits; and there’s hidden items scattered around Downtown.
Our next clue directs us towards the huge fountain in Downtown. As we approach it, a clown runs ahead of the others and hops in. Others curiously watch as he frolics towards an orange object. He grabs the object and lifts it victoriously over his head — it’s merely an orange traffic cone. A few cheer while others laugh. We really are a bunch of jokers.
Another clown figures out the real clue which directs us to another part of Downtown. Some start running; others at a fast walk. Bernie sprints with other clowns and attempts to hop over a barrier. Both his feet get caught on the edge and gravity works its magic pulling Bernie face first into the ground. Right as he collides with asphalt, James runs past him in hysterics laughing and pointing at him.
The best part? WB were there to film the entire spectacle. Yes, that’s right: WB has Bernie eating shit on tape. I’m sorry, Bernie, but I just had to share the story with the world.
I’m darting through traffic of people at the con and barely make it outside in one piece. No time to catch your breath — round 2. There’s huge lines outside. There’s barely any walking space, but I’m somehow managing to cut through between people. One goal was on my mind: to get in line for the Iron Man 2 panel.
Around a corner and I see the queue. It’s nowhere near as bad as the line for Avatar — thank God. I get in line. There’s about 300 people in front of me — should be guaranteed seating.
In front of me are these very animated guys. One is a short Asian who talks excitedly about different things going on at the con. The other is a black guy wearing a du-rag, who is just as excited.
The heat is beating down on us in line, but we’re taking it in stride. A worker with a cart walks by selling water, but it’s only been half-an-hour, and I think I can last until I get inside Hall H. I’ll get some refreshments then.
Waiting wasn’t too bad since it’s always entertaining to people-watch at Comic Con; cosplayers are always passing by. There’s fewer this year, but the quality of their costumes has improved dramatically.
Looking over at the two in front of me, the black guy pulls out his cellphone. He presses a few buttons and music begins to play . . . j-pop starts blasting from his phone. It was unexpected and makes me chuckle. Now those within hearing distance get to listen to happy-go-lucky music while we wait. It helps pass the time; it helps us stay positive while the sun is unmerciful.
One of the workers in charge of the line walks by and a guy stops him. “That guy over there cut in line. No one knows him,” he informs the worker.
The worker walks over to the guy in question. “We can’t have you cutting. You need to go.”
“I’m only one person in a line of thousands — what’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that people have been waiting over an hour in the heat. Go to the back of the line right now.”
The guy relents, and with a look of defeat, he leaves the line. The worker then resumes walking up and down the massive line.
45 minutes later the worker with the cart walks by. The heat is getting to me; I’m starting to feel dehydrated; I succumb. “Hey! I’d like to buy a bottle of water, please.”
“That will be 2 dollars.”
Damn . . . hella expensive, but at this point it’s a necessity.
“Do you have change for a 20?” I ask him.
“Oh, good! I can give you a bunch of ones — I have too many,” he exclaims counting out change, then handing it to me.
After some moments, the worker keeping an eye on the line is walking by again. A lady stops him this time. “Those guys over there — they weren’t there earlier. They cut.”
“Are you sure?” asks the worker.
Another person in line interjects, “I noticed it too.”
Walking over to the little group, the worker proceeds to boot them out of the line. It’s amazing to me how on top of things this worker is. He’s courteous to everyone, but to anyone who cuts, he becomes this hard-ass.
As unmerciful the line seems to be, we were looking out for each other. It’s approaching the 2 hour mark, and anyone in line who needs to use the bathroom, or buy food and drinks; we held their place in line.
After a few moments, the worker returns, asking for our attention. “If you are here to see the panel for Iron Man 2, you probably won’t see it . . . a panel just ended, and no one has left Hall H. It looks like everyone in Hall H are there for Iron Man. You can stay in line, but I’m just warning you.”
A few people looking dejected start to leave. Others looking worried stay in line, clutching onto hope and intent on making it to the panel. I’m one of those people. Because of this, my place in line is bumped up to the first 250 people. There’s one more panel before Iron Man; there’s bound to be people leaving Hall H before it.
The worker returns and again addresses the crowd. “The last panel has ended, and only 20 people have left . . . I can only let 20 of you in. I’m truly sorry, but people in Hall H are there for Iron Man 2. After that, there will be the panel for Kevin Smith.”
Damn . . . .
I debate in my head whether I want to stick around or not. It’s been close to 3 hours, and I really didn’t want that time to be spent in vain. Droves of people are leaving the line and I find myself in the first 50. I heard before that Kevin Smith’s panels are always hilarious. Maybe it’ll be worth it. I suck it up and stay in line.
40 minutes later the Iron Man 2 panel comes to a close. Thousands of people pour out of Hall H much to the dismay of those of us in line. The worker returns for the final time to direct us into Hall H.
Walking to the entrance, a security person stops a man a few places in front of me in line. “Show me your badge.”
The man shows her his badge, his hand slyly covering the bottom portion of it. “Move your hand,” she sternly tells him. Apprehensively, he uncovers that part of the badge to reveal it is a void badge from the other day.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave right now.”
Those of us witnessing what has just transpired are amazed. Then of course we quickly forget as we walk into Hall H, workers inside asking if we need any water. It’s nice and cool inside, and I quickly find a seat and sit down. I’m exhausted and admittedly upset that I missed the panel I was in line for.
20 minutes into Kevin Smith’s panel (and him dissing Twilight, but then admitting his daughter loves it and needs to get her some stuff at the Con), a man approached the microphone and tells him, “Kevin, my wife made Twilight bags, and here’s one you can have.”
Keven tells him to get up on stage to sit with him. For the duration of the panel, Kevin would give the man random massages while answering questions. Another guy approaches the mic. “Kevin, can I sit up on stage with you two?”
“No. Why would I? I let this guy because he gave me a Twilight bag.”
“I’ll give you something!” the man retorts.
“Nah, man. I don’t want a hand-job. My wife’s right there.”
40 minutes later I leave Kevin Smith’s panel with my cheeks and sides aching from laughter. I may have missed Iron Man 2, but the wait was worth it for the hilarity that ensued at Kevin Smith’s panel. I’m definitely going to his panel again next year. You should too.
I keep promising myself — and to a few others — to update regularly, but I never seem to keep that promise. Whoops.
Anyways! Comic Con was a blast; met some actors and actresses, went to a bunch of panels, and had an overall silly time with friends. With that said: expect some entries coming up very soon (I promise — haha) sharing some stories from the Con.
In the meantime: how about clicking that little Social Vibe banner on the right? I know you want to help a good cause.
Putting my car into gear, I begin driving out of my parking space. I turn right and head towards the front gate. With my window rolled down, I slide my key card through the scanner which opens the gate; allowing me off the premises of my work. Driving down the street, I take a left to a traffic light. Great . . . traffic, I think to myself.
Waiting at the red light, I overhear someone loudly talking on a cellphone. I look to my right and see a yuppie with sunglasses on; in a BMW with the windows rolled down. I can’t help but listen.
“Nah, man, I can’t go clubbing! I’m working tonight. Yeah . . . there’s a huge project due tomorrow.”
Not wanting to listen to someone talking about work since I just got off; I tune him out and listen to my stereo. Some moments pass and suddenly the yuppie is loud again. I glance over, again listening.
“I’ll talk to you later,” he replies.
The yuppie then hangs up his cellphone. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it. Turning up his stereo, he begins singing along. His pitch is flat and he’s so loud that it overpowers my own stereo. Surely he knows that every car around us can hear him perfectly clear, right?
Looking around me, I see people in their cars staring at the yuppie; some smiling, some covering their mouths to suppress themselves, and some not ashamed to burst with laughter.
The light finally turns green; the yuppie takes a drag from his cigarette, then belts out another verse, speeds away, and leaves the rest of us in hysterics.
The singing yuppie will always be remembered by all who were within the vicinity of his angelic voice. May he grace more traffic jams for many more years to come.
In Seattle, a man named Eric Gardner makes derogatory comments towards a Muslim mother and her baby. She attempts to walk away from the malicious man, but he follows, pulling out a knife and threatening the life of her and her child.
Why? All because he fears Muslims. He claims he threaten their lives to defend America. Uh, what? Defend America by threatening to kill an American and her baby? This bigotry is downright appalling.
The irony behind this heroic man is that he has a long criminal record of assault and felony harassment. Mr. Defender of America, you are a threat to the American people. Do the right thing in court and make sure the judge locks you away for a very long time. Do it for America.
Film Producer Lawrence Kasanoff is suing Midway with claims that Mortal Kombat is his intellectual property. Wait, what?
“The Mortal Kombat series, as it stands today, is far more a creation of Threshold and Kasanoff than of Midway. Midway’s creative input was almost entirely limited to the videogames. On their own, the videogames provided only minimal back-story and mythology, and only flat, “stock” characters… Kasanoff and Threshold were responsible for virtually all of the creative input that went into turning the videogame concept into a multimedia enterprise.”
Of course Kasanoff produced two mediocre movies, and all his other endeavors with the franchise had ultimately failed; fading into obscurity in the 90’s. Since then, Midway has been producing Mortal Kombat games with success.
Maybe I’m looking back with rose-tinted lenses, but from what I remember; Mortal Kombat was a popular fighting game when it first came out. When the second game came out; it blew the minds of all my friends and I. The arcades had long lines, but damned if I didn’t get to play. And this was before the first movie came out.
Now why was the first movie successful? Oh, that’s right — because fans of the game came out in droves to see it. Don’t kid yourself, Kasanoff. You may have brought the franchise onto another medium, but its success lies squarely on Midway.
“The point of all this is simple: Win. In warfare, nothing else matters. If you cannot win clean, win dirty. But win.”
Conservative military writer Ralph Peters’ absolutes scare me. Any journalists who do not serve the agenda should be destroyed in his eyes. Freedom of the press be damned — this is America.
And for that quote: Yes, let’s lower ourselves to the level of the enemy. Why should we stand by our convictions when we can advocate war crimes as long as it serves our purpose? Any other country that does so, are monsters. We are exempt from morals. We’re America, bitch.
