WEDNESDAY/THURSDAY

It's a couple of days before the show and Roc has sent me a gentle email reminder that he'd appreciate it if I brought the book with me. Several other people have written to request their own commissions. I haven't even started packing, and my sketch list is getting backed up.
It's hard to know how much to pack. The Comicon exhibitor services office never processed my table application, so I'm not listed in any of the paperwork. Who, outside ofthe people on my sketch list, will even know I'm there? And if I'm not in the program, how will they find me? That's easy. Publicity Stunt! I put out a goofy press release informing the world of the facts of my situation, and include the number of the cell phone I'll be carrying at the show. Want to find me at the show? Just give me a call!

"I'm sorry, the system closes down at 30 minutes before takeoff. I can't let you check in."
"But--but-- can my bags go on a later flight, and I go ahead and take this one?"
"It's already begun boarding, there's nothing I can do. There are no more flights out tonight."
There's nothing quite like missing your flight to make you feel like a Loser's loser. Luckily, the Alaskan attendant found me a seat on a jet going out in the morning. But all these reports start out with airport hijinks, and you're tired of that. Wait, let me finish though, for my own amusement. I wasn't about to call Jill and make her wake our daughter at 9:30 pm, so I called Steve, who was frantically packing, printing cards, etc. His wife Sara came and collected me and brought me back to their house so I could cab out with Lieber in the morning. Though we left plenty early to make Lieber's flight, we indulged the folly of breakfast, which combined with a long security check made it likely Steve would be repeating my scene from last night. As usual, I take off my shoes and belt so the grommets and buckle don't set off any warnings. This always leaves me walking through the checkpoint holding my pants up like some vaudevillian, and they still called me aside for a search anyway. Final boarding for Steve's flight is nearly over, and once they clear him, he rockets down Hall C profusely. How can something so big move so fast?
I fly into Los Angeles, where I'm lunching with my old gang of Ford Gilmore, Tomm Coker, Dave Johnson, and his girlfriend Debbie. Dave has a new innovation that he came up with at Warner Animation when he should have been drawing Justice League backgrounds-- he's drawing characters on cardboard with magic marker and filling in parts with whiteout pen. It's sounds crappy to describe it, but they're very cool and he's made a few for the show. (UPDATE: He sold a ton of those things.)

Onward to luggage. I grab my bags and go. No one stops to check the claim tags. They could belong to anyone. Up the elevator, across the skybridge, and down to the taxis. My cabby grunts, hefting my bags, and we take off. He's noticed that things have been busier and asks what is happening. The word Comicon doesn't seem to ring a bell.
"How long have you been driving a cab in San Diego?"
"Seven years."
"And you haven't heard of Comicon?"
"There is so much to know. Who can? How long it will go?"
"Through Sunday."
"And all with luggage like you, no?" he asks, worried eyes huge in the rear-view mirror.
He drops me at the Bristol, where I'll be rooming with Jim O and Parker. Last time I stayed here was 2001, and it doesn't seem to have changed. And even though Jim called last week to put my name on the room, the staff has no record of this and is unimpressed with my having Jim's confirmation number. I'm not surprised they refuse to let me in before Jim shows up. If he fails to appear they could choose to let me have the room at the Comicon rate we secured months ago, or they could cancel the reservation and make it available to a desperately overbooked market at the going rates of $667/night. One of these would be polite. The other would net them an additional $2500. "Sorry, Mister Liber. I'm afraid I can't let you in until Mr Ottaveynee shows up." Maybe I'm just projecting my own fierce greed onto staff that's just concerned for Jim's security. Regardless, it looks like my bags are going into storage until Jim arrives.

T H U R S D A Y
I take a little time to mosey around the room and see the Love Brothers' booth. Jeremy hooks me up with a copy of Fierce from Dark Horse and a preview of Chocolate Thunder(which is not about Darryl Dawkins). Robert's art is good on the eyes, and I see that on Thunder they're working with the talented Jamar Nicholas. So they're doing well, and hopefully will remember me upon becoming rich and powerful. Nearby is Fat Naked Rave, an assemblage of all the famous cover artists led by spiritual leader Art Adams. Dave is working on one of those cardboard things (what a scam. He just pulled his material out of a dumpster!) Around the tables are Tony Harris, Phil Noto, Jason Pearson, Seth Fisher, Joyce Chen, and I hear Walt Simonson will be there later, though I never make it over again. Hey, there's Brent Erwin with a good booth location showing off the books from APE Entertainment I pick up the Atomic Age Treasury of Pulp Action 'cause I'm down with that type of material. Good thing too-- a few minutes later I bumble through the DC booth at an opportune time; Vince Letterio is finishing up a guest list he has to hand in for a private Paramount screening of Sky Captain and The World of Tomorrow, and puts me on it. And me, just trying to shortcut to the bathroom! Sometimes it pays to get up from the table. That's all a lotta fun, but now I have civic duty to take care of.

		SAN DIEGO 2004
		COMICON INTERNATIONAL
		By Steve Lieber and Jeff Parker
*A Color-Coded Key to Distinguish Authors.* Things Jeff Parker says are in DARK GREY on a GREY background. This is because he lives in a complex grey world, where there are many truths and life must be taken on a case-by-case basis. Things Steve Lieber says are in BLACK TEXT on a WHITE background. This mirrors Steve's simplistic black and white worldview, where there is no room for interpretation. Don't care about the details of our experience? Just checking to see if you're mentioned? Simply press Control Key + F and enter your name in the dialogue box, you narcissist.
WEDNESDAY/THURSDAY
As is often the case, Comicon starts long before the show actually opens. For me, this year's show started in 2002, when I took Roc Blumenthal's new sketchbook and told him I'd take care of his sketch at the hotel on Sunday night and mail it as soon as soon as I got home. Parker started a sketch in it but I didn't get around to it, and, well, it somehow became 2004.
	It's a couple of days before the show and Roc has sent me a gentle email reminder that he'd appreciate it if I brought the book with me. Several other people have written to request their own commissions. I haven't even started packing, and my sketch list is getting backed up. It's hard to know how much to pack. The Comicon exhibitor services office never processed my table application, so I'm not listed in any of the paperwork. Who, outside ofthe people on my sketch list, will even know I'm there? And if I'm not in the program, how will they find me? That's easy. Publicity Stunt! I put out a goofy press release informing the world of the facts of my situation, and include the number of the cell phone I'll be carrying at the show. Want to find me at the show? Just give me a call!		The inexplicable polyester tablecloth
	The answer, of course, is "pack everything." There's no telling what people will want, so ship it all down, or pack it in the luggage. I've got comics and tpb graphic novels and ashcan minis and the new "Idiot's Guide" book and original art and magazines and books I've illustrated and prints and art supplies and folding wire display racks and collapsable plastic crates and a digital camera and, inexplicably, a case of cliff bars and a light blue polyester tablecloth. Because I'm going to be dependent on everyone else in Mercury Studios giving up a little bit of their assigned sections in Artists Alley, I'll have just under three and a half linear feet of table space to present it all. Whatever. If I build it, they will come. It's the night before the show and I'm getting the last of my stuff together. The phone rings and it's Parker who I'd swear should be on an airplane right now. Comicon International is where Old School SciFi and Modern SciFi hit head on-- with sexy results.
	"I'm sorry, the system closes down at 30 minutes before takeoff. I can't let you check in." "But--but-- can my bags go on a later flight, and I go ahead and take this one?" "It's already begun boarding, there's nothing I can do. There are no more flights out tonight." There's nothing quite like missing your flight to make you feel like a Loser's loser. Luckily, the Alaskan attendant found me a seat on a jet going out in the morning. But all these reports start out with airport hijinks, and you're tired of that. Wait, let me finish though, for my own amusement. I wasn't about to call Jill and make her wake our daughter at 9:30 pm, so I called Steve, who was frantically packing, printing cards, etc. His wife Sara came and collected me and brought me back to their house so I could cab out with Lieber in the morning. Though we left plenty early to make Lieber's flight, we indulged the folly of breakfast, which combined with a long security check made it likely Steve would be repeating my scene from last night. As usual, I take off my shoes and belt so the grommets and buckle don't set off any warnings. This always leaves me walking through the checkpoint holding my pants up like some vaudevillian, and they still called me aside for a search anyway. Final boarding for Steve's flight is nearly over, and once they clear him, he rockets down Hall C profusely. How can something so big move so fast? I fly into Los Angeles, where I'm lunching with my old gang of Ford Gilmore, Tomm Coker, Dave Johnson, and his girlfriend Debbie. Dave has a new innovation that he came up with at Warner Animation when he should have been drawing Justice League backgrounds-- he's drawing characters on cardboard with magic marker and filling in parts with whiteout pen. It's sounds crappy to describe it, but they're very cool and he's made a few for the show. (UPDATE: He sold a ton of those things.)
	At the Burlyman booth: Those Wachowski Bros. know a good time...
My luggage, like me, is overweight. The woman at the Alaska desk asks if I'm moving to San Diego. It's a fair question. I'm carrying more than your typical refugee. She's curious what I'm schlepping, and when I tell her it's comics, she recognizes me from a recent article in the Oregonian and offers to waive half the extra cost. It's hard not to feel all famous and confident, certain that the show will go well. Things return to normal when the metal-detector line almost makes me late for my flight. Matthew Clark and David Hahn, who took their seats half an hour ago when boarding was first announced, exchange glances. I feel the blood rushing to my face. The only relief is there are two other comics people right behind me. Pete and Rebecca Woods are on the flight, too, and as they deplane, I watch their faces. To most of us, San Diego is just the Con, a week of business and hanging with friends. But they lived here for a while and you can see in their expressions that it still means something to them. Pete's squinting a bit, taking it all in slowly, while Rebecca's eyes are wide. There's something important happening inside them but I'm not sure what and I don't ask. The moment seems too private.				Rebecca Woods
Onward to luggage. I grab my bags and go. No one stops to check the claim tags. They could belong to anyone. Up the elevator, across the skybridge, and down to the taxis. My cabby grunts, hefting my bags, and we take off. He's noticed that things have been busier and asks what is happening. The word Comicon doesn't seem to ring a bell. "How long have you been driving a cab in San Diego?" "Seven years." "And you haven't heard of Comicon?" "There is so much to know. Who can? How long it will go?" "Through Sunday." "And all with luggage like you, no?" he asks, worried eyes huge in the rear-view mirror. He drops me at the Bristol, where I'll be rooming with Jim O and Parker. Last time I stayed here was 2001, and it doesn't seem to have changed. And even though Jim called last week to put my name on the room, the staff has no record of this and is unimpressed with my having Jim's confirmation number. I'm not surprised they refuse to let me in before Jim shows up. If he fails to appear they could choose to let me have the room at the Comicon rate we secured months ago, or they could cancel the reservation and make it available to a desperately overbooked market at the going rates of $667/night. One of these would be polite. The other would net them an additional $2500. "Sorry, Mister Liber. I'm afraid I can't let you in until Mr Ottaveynee shows up." Maybe I'm just projecting my own fierce greed onto staff that's just concerned for Jim's security. Regardless, it looks like my bags are going into storage until Jim arrives.
PREVIEW NIGHT The name of Preview Night should be changed to Argue Over Tables Night, 'cause that's all that is. It's valuable mainly for getting set up before the show starts the next day. My evolution of table displays continues. This year I discovered monster-thick black foam core boards, and brought several to stack so Lieber and I could share a display. It made the table easy to find, and created a wall so we didn't have to hear each other's respective shtick for four days, so this may be the most succesful display yet. And we could hide art supplies and snacks in it. Carla Speed McNeil returns to the surface, with pictures of her baby boy. Somehow she's back on track drawing a page a day while raising that young'un, which really should qualify her for some kind of special award. Left: Mike Mignola interviewed on his creation's transition to film, and the craft therein. Right: ROCK ON, Right Hand of DOOM! Hellboy Handz versus Hulk Hands, YEAH!

T H U R S D A Y I take a little time to mosey around the room and see the Love Brothers' booth. Jeremy hooks me up with a copy of Fierce from Dark Horse and a preview of Chocolate Thunder(which is not about Darryl Dawkins). Robert's art is good on the eyes, and I see that on Thunder they're working with the talented Jamar Nicholas. So they're doing well, and hopefully will remember me upon becoming rich and powerful. Nearby is Fat Naked Rave, an assemblage of all the famous cover artists led by spiritual leader Art Adams. Dave is working on one of those cardboard things (what a scam. He just pulled his material out of a dumpster!) Around the tables are Tony Harris, Phil Noto, Jason Pearson, Seth Fisher, Joyce Chen, and I hear Walt Simonson will be there later, though I never make it over again. Hey, there's Brent Erwin with a good booth location showing off the books from APE Entertainment I pick up the Atomic Age Treasury of Pulp Action 'cause I'm down with that type of material. Good thing too-- a few minutes later I bumble through the DC booth at an opportune time; Vince Letterio is finishing up a guest list he has to hand in for a private Paramount screening of Sky Captain and The World of Tomorrow, and puts me on it. And me, just trying to shortcut to the bathroom! Sometimes it pays to get up from the table. That's all a lotta fun, but now I have civic duty to take care of.
ELECTION YEAR SPECIAL! Actually Abe was there peddling Presidential Action Figures. Like many creators, I volunteered to do some table time with Caleb Gerard of Comics World News at the We Want Your Autograph booth, registering people to vote. Many of the volunteers tried to catch passers-by with "Are you registered to vote?"-type questions, and the crowd blurred by. Some throwing out snotty replies as if they were being asked for money, and blurting the ever-popular "I don't vote" as if that was some kind of well-thought-out position. I did the same thing for a bit, and failed miserably with it. What am I doing??? Exuding desperation, that's what. Growing resentful and chasing people away with my patheticness. Then I paused and breathed in, finding my center. I am an ocean of calm. I do not chase, I create an environment that others want to be in. I am JEFF FUING PARKER AND WHEN I SAY VOTE, MOTHERFKERS VTE THEY ASS FF. I sat down, and began drawing. I'd look up and let people know that they could have a free quick sketch. They came over. I told them that they could get registered to vote in the minute it would take me to draw the picture. They registered, even some who said they don't care about elections and voting. Now they have the option, and if they get inspired in a few months, will legally be able to participate in staffing our country. DAMN RIGHT. The only one it didn't work with was a girl from Norway, for obvious reasons. But now she at least thinks higher of our democracy. Writer James Hudnall, the Hud, came and sat down. After a few minutes he recognized my name from when we both worked on Malibu Comics. I already knew him, 'cause he's the Hud. I suspect our political leanings pushed wildly apart from one another like a divining rod that can't find a drop of water, but we were both doing our part to get the populus involved. Then that wacky Lea Hernandez showed up and started pulling people over by their earlobes. The table is in good hands, so I salute Caleb and zen my way back to Artist Alley.
A Very Lieber Thursday Up early and in on time. The first call comes in on the cell phone. "How's you sketch list?" He wants a barbarian. (Pause) "Maybe a girl barabarian? You know?" No problem. Come by sometime after lunch. There's a guy talking to Mark Texiera (On right). "Lissen Mark, I want to get a commission from you, and for inspiration, I'm gonna show you some pictures of my boat." A fan approaches. He's bursting with praise. "Oh my god. It's you! You're the guy who drew WHITEOUT! I swear to god you're the best artist here! Is there a third WHITEOUT yet?" "No. Sorry. I've been working on a lot of different projects with some terrific wri-" "How about Queen and Country?" "No, but my ne-" "Uh, good luck with that." He walks away.
J, who's been watching all this, gives me a wide smile. "Must be great to have fans, Lieber." Parker's weird table divider thing makes it hard to see who he's talking to, but I eventually realize it's Zander Cannon, back from Japan. Cool! he's already sick of talking about the place, but, it still doesn't take much effort to get him started. And dinner plans are made. It's me, parker, Zander and Julie Cannon, Shad and Anna Petosky, Kevin Cannon (unbelievably no relation to Zander), Alex Saviuk and Bo Hampton. We're all quickly seated at Buca diBeppo, a place that pushes Italian kitsch schtick to the limit. Sofia Loren everywhere, pissing cherubs, the works. The food is plentiful and placemat sketching quickly ensues. Zander and Julie are back from a two-year stay in Japan, and are reacclimating to American life. Zander, Shad and Kevin are forming a new studio which will soon be the chewy artististic center of Minneapolis. Minnesotans eat Italian; Hampton and his mechanical goon eye the Convention Center. Lieber's illo based on the Maitre 'D. Parker did the Sophia Loren in the right frame. We're not sure who else did what-- unimportant, as this is our convention retelling. So it was a fine dinner catching up with old friends and yet not paying too much. As we walk outside, we're trying to figure out the next place to go and keep the fun rolling. Surely with all the art talk and comradery, Parker will blow off the free movie and continue to hang out with his friends.

What's funny about this is that it was taken after the show was over for 40 minutes--most of the hall was half apart and Dan still has his booth set up completely to do more business. So I'm in the theatre waiting to be let into the main room. I look over the guest list to spy some names that could be used, the only one I see that I'm sure isn't in the room is Matthew Clark. I try to call Lieber via cell to let him know he can be Matthew, but he isn't picking up. Oh well. Talking to Dan Brereton and his goil Chartruz when Dan points out some producer who was accused a while back of being improper with male minors. Yikes. Bigger yikes when later Dan catches the guy's attention and says "Hey, aren't you....?" Chartruz and I are bug-eyed, thinking his next words will be.. "you're a molester, right?" but he doesn't, I think he just wanted to make the creepy guy uncomfortable. That is SO Dan. The guy acts dismissive, no doubt picking up on this. The movie is about to start, and big tuxedoed goons are checking everyone to make sure they're "with Paramount". I get past them, and head up looking for someone I know before the place goes dark. A few people yelled out, "Parker," but I couldn't tell who they were. Luckily I found artist Derek Aucoin and sat by him. The writer/director comes out and says a little something before things start, and then the movie begins. It's so nice to not have to watch a trailer of Christmas With the Kranks or read infant-level movie trivia before the feature. Sky Captain is all eye candy, purposely keeping the plot thin to mimic old movie serials. We all enjoyed the heck out of it, but then again we're the perfect audience for such a flick. I'm not sure how it will go over with the general public. Except for a ray gun prop held by Giovanni Ribisi, everything in the movie is computer generated, so in that way it really is the World of Tomorrow, when actors will have nothing physical to work with at all. I think everyone's favorite part was the launch of the Amphibious Squadron, because flying underwater is generally cool. Afterward we were given free t-shirts with WORLD POLICE on the backs. Score! Well that was a day. CONTINUE TO FRIDAY....