My ex-roommate (and preferred friend) Basement Joe had invited me to Toronto's Comic Con. I went because, in spite of my nearly impeccable nerd credentials, I had never been to a real convention. I had been to zine shows and the Toronto Comic Arts Festival. But actual conventions were a step too far. Even though I could name an X-person for nearly every letter of the alphabet. Because I could name an X-person for nearly every letter of the alphabet. Angel! Bishop! Cannonball! And so on, until X-Man. That's knowledge best left to wither in the brain.
And yet, as the years go on, you become more comfortable in your own skin, or at least your own X-Men t-shirt (XL, little boy's department, Zellers, 2004.) Which had unfortunately gone missing before this weekend, but mentally I was ready. And so I took the long ride to the convention centre. The closer I came, the more costumes I saw, so I didn't even really need the address to find the building. The assorted Stormtroopers and Catwomen made a trail to its doors. And then down the escalators, to the basement, where we belonged. You could get the cast of Star Trek: TNG to sign your stuff, and you could definitely buy that stuff, but sometimes the con seemed as much about being seen as not. Like some sort of pop Bois de Boulogne, the crowds shuffled around the centre, admiring and being admired at how accurately they had dragged their favourite fandoms into reality.
At the ComicCon, signs get flipped. Dress up like a sexy lady TARDIS with a phone booth hat and wander around the Eaton's Centre, you'll get looks. Dress up in a plain skirt and shirt while almost buying a Golden Age crime comic, and you'll get more. I was a part of this group, but not, and when I checked the price on the polypropylene bag, I just felt poor.
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