Multiple graduations last weekend and preparations well under way for Comic-Con International: San Diego caused me to not-very-originally observe that the event's nerd-prom nickname is apt. I don't mean in that exaggerated, teen-movie sense — I've never seen the Spider-Man cosplayer from the wrong side of the trolley-tracks move in slow motion toward the Black Cat cosplayer while attendees slow-clap. However, when I'm there, it's hard to resist the urge to become a shallower version of myself, name-dropping, trying to figure out if I can get into the coolest parties, find a group of popular kids to hang out with, etc. More specifically, here are some reasons why, in the vernacular of my youth, SDCC is
totally like high school:
What table you sit at actually matters.
Professionally, obviously, it marks you — your clique, your place in the food chain, etc. If someone knows nothing about you, they will judge you by where you sit in the Exhibit Hall before they judge your work. What table you sit at matters socially, too. Not only can it help or hinder how enjoyable whatever you're doing is, it can honestly affect your career, whether you're pestering a group of professionals who are just trying to eat dinner or make a little extra room for someone who later on offers you a business opportunity.
Labels matter, too.
In high school, people are often socially categorized — stoner, nerd, popular, jock, whatever. At SDCC, people are literally labeled by the color of their badge —pro, exhibitor, attendee — and treated accordingly both by their peers and The Powers that Be (there are even hall monitors and security). Of course, there are subcategories, just like high school — a tennis jock is differentiated from a football jock, just as James Kochalka is probably treated in not quite the same way as, say, Jim Lee, for example.
You want to look as good as you reasonably can.
Obviously, if you wear something uncomfortable or impractical, you will suffer. But, I used to not make much of an effort — starting off the con by waking up at 4 a.m. to fly out of Seattle and working Preview Night until 11 p.m. will do that to you —until I realized that when I'm in a photograph of the booth or whatever, it's more like a yearbook, and represents whatever I'm affiliated with — the drama club, the handbell choir, Fantagraphics — for years afterward. So, now I make a bit more of an effort (sit up and stand up straight when I can remember to, bring a change of clothes to events where people are likely to be wielding cameras, like the Eisners) and, when I'm not doing the 60-second journalist thing as I dash from the booth to cover a panel or whatnot, I try to extend the courtesy of giving someone a sec to compose him- or herself whenever I take photographs. (The upside is no crowd appreciates a good T-shirt like an SDCC one.)
Knowing how to get your homework done even when you don't want to/make your own fun are valuable skills.
The first obviously translates to planning properly and getting what you need to done even though you'd rather be hanging out with your friends. The second sounds a little strange at first, with all of the hoopla competing for your attention and, by extension, your dollars, but I run into these weird pockets of time in San Diego where I can't quite work and I can't quite socialize, and knowing how to entertain myself comes in handy. I know this affects small-press artists who are tied to their booth, too.
And, finally:
You have to deal with being in a large group of overly stimulated people jammed closely together.
Of course, this means that your reactions to things are heightened in the way that they are during adolescence, and things that normally wouldn't get to you start to wear. (And, just like high school, sometimes there are women crying in the bathroom.) Ultimately, you lose quite a bit of the control you're used to in daily life.
(In this vein, I'm taking a mini-summer vacation from the column for the next two weeks.)
Image credits:
Homecoming: From "The Willful Death of Stereotype," written by Chris Staros and drawn by Bo Hampton. [©2001 Chris Staros & Bo Hampton]
Hell: From Empowered Vol. 1. [©2007 Adam Warren]
Makeup: From Unlovable Vol. 1. [©2009 Esther Pearl Watson]
Kristy Valenti currently works for The Comics Journal and Fantagraphics Books, Inc.
Uncharted Territory is © Kristy Valenti, 2008
