Twilight of the Nerds

Had a grand old time at SPX this year. Let’s see:
Made a dizzying tour of the exhibition hall, which is always a big, confusing mess. Nice people who got my attention sold a comic, and I had some hits (Alex Gonzales’ Broken Chain, a charming and maddeningly true-to-life wordless tale of a boy, a girl, a bicycle and frogs) and some misses (not worth slamming here, but the writer/artist very enthusiastically signed my copy) and some in-betweens (part two of a creepy fairy tale called Fatalysia; I had bought part one last year. It’s ok, I mean, I keep reading it). I blew 30 bucks on the expanded reprint of Joe Sacco’s “Palestine,” but that was totally worth it.

Then I went to the tail end of a panel about the daily comic strip (wither &c) with Ted Rall, Bill Griffiths and others. It got pretty hot; I wished I’d seen it all. Then a panel on, well, it turned into a sort of “Are Comics Literature” discussion – I guess they were going for what is the nature and place of text in the comic book — and the academic who moderated was getting on my nerves. Then the first question came from one of those fast-talking college girls I know so well from having one in every single class I’ve ever taught – they always sit in the first row and roll their eyes and overuse “solipsism.” This piece of work announced that she’d only read one comic and it was Eddie Campbell’s “The Fate of the Artist (!!!) and then went on to commandeer the Q&A session with what she thought were refutations of the panelists answers and were just … incoherent. When she unleashed her A-bomb – “semiotic space” – I had to leave. The planners had wisely not left anything around the room big enough to throw.

I used to love dealing with those girls – they were always girls. I’d look quizzical and ask what “semiotic space” meant.” That shut them up but good. I think chicks like that boss around their professors because they can, because college professors truly are afraid of being caught out not knowing everything, and when they’re hit with even an undigested notion such as this (I mean, it exists, it means something; in fact, part two of the Destruction of the Eye Rollers was to musingly define the term myself and then ask if that’s what she meant by it, and then point out that it doesn’t apply. Good times) they just pretend and move on. And another thing: MOST comics have words, I mean. Silver Surfer had words. How can you say, “I don’t read comics with words because that’s not what they’re about” (yes, she said that) and not acknowledge that when Little Nemo says, “I say, oh!” he’s using words?

Went back outside and ran into Comics Guy from work, who was with Greg Bennett, and otherwise networking up a storm, and finally met Eric from the band the Jet Age, with whom I have unaccountably become email buddies. He’s a total doll and has sent two ace meatbags my way, so he gets s fruit basket. (Reminder: Send fruit basket.)

Hm. Then off to the ATM, back to the crummy ballroom with the hypnotic carpeting

for a panel on non-fiction comics, which was really interesting except Nick Bertozzi couldn’t make it. So it was a panel of two, which has less energy than three or four. A GREAT panel of two – Rutu Modan of Exit Wounds and Nick Abadzis of Laika, which makes me cry like a little girl, though not as bad as WE3 makes me cry, which is kind of pathetic, if you think about it, because Laika was real. Although that photograph of her in the afterword is almost as affecting as the photograph of Valdek Spiegelman … now I’m just being foolish. Sniff. (OK, no; let’s do this. The difference? “Good dog” vs “Bad dog.” Natural doggy trust vs. dearly learned self-recrimination. Hope vs. regret.)

Then the highlight of the day, a fascinating and infuriating panel on the state of comics criticism. It was just so engrossing and brought up so much of what I’ve been thinking about criticism, comics, publications and the function of processing art – my head was spinning. I got more and more frustrated and just as they were about the pull the plug, I stuck up my hand and launched into a rant. I really wanted to hear the panel comment on my comment but it was kind of funny. They just said, “I agree,” “She’s right,” Yeah, me too” and one said, “Get up here.” I’m not a ringer, boys; I’m a mole. I wanted to meet Douglas Wolk but it was 6 p.m. and Cinderella was late for the ball.

I met Spike at DNA’s, and we had a lovely time and ate many, many of these hot prunes thingies wrapped with bacon. The Manhattans with peach bitters were a knockout, too, and I was stupified by 8:15 p.m. (That’s one cocktail, for those counting.) Note to self: make own peach bitters.

Today I went to Fantom and saw Matthew (who was there yesterday, but surrounded by a gaggle of geeks), who hooked me up with multitudinous volumes. The Last Man 9! Two new Fables TPBs; the first Fell TPB (because people keep borrowing my single issues); something with a giant squid in it; Exit Wounds, Salon; Jason’s I Killed Adolf Hitler; a Bill Mauldin book for Spike, some other stuff.

It’s getting dark in here; gotta catch up with Friday Night Lights.