The Small Press Expo, 2000

PDX at 11pm, and I'm off-- flying to Seattle to fly to St Louis to fly to Baltimore to catch a shuttle to Bethesda. I've taken a double dose of Nyquil and I'm sporting earplugs, an eyemask and a neck pillow. Between the drugs and the sensory-deprivation equipment, it takes about eight seconds to cross the country and reach the hotel. My only clear impression is of Donna Barr on the hotel shuttle, waggling her fingers to make quote marks and telling an elderly woman that "comics" is a misnomer, that using the term "drawn books" would change everything and that the "hire and fire" types need to unionize. The woman seems unsure what Barr is talking about. I doze again and twenty minutes later the lecture is still going strong.

At the hotel, my room isn't ready yet, so I head into the bathroom to change into my spiffy duds. I'm standing next to the urinals with my pants around my ankles when a fat man in a staff uniform enters, says "Whoa!" and quickly closes the door.

Top Shelf co-honcho Brett Warnock is pushing a what appears to be a wooden dumpster through the lobby of the Holiday Inn. He doesn't stop, but waves hello by briefly sticking out one arm at 90 degrees, Brett is wearing sunglasses and is gritting his teeth with effort, and the effect is sort of like a Howard Chaykin drawing.

A short time later, Brett's partner Chris Staros crosses the lobby, relaxed, smiling and entirely unencumbered. He doesn't stop either, and hangs his arm out at 90 degrees, too.

Eric Reynolds and I are talking about Chris Oarr (then) of the CBLDF, praising him to the skies for his combination of big-picture vision and willingness to roll up his sleeves and get things done. Eric's cell phone rings and it's Oarr, asking for warm bodies to help get some freebie bags stuffed with promo materials. "Well there y'go."

Eric takes off, and just then, I find out my room is available so I tell him I'll catch up. After dumping my stuff, and heading down to the third floor, I'm unable to figure out where this bag stuffing is taking place. Oh well. I check in at ICAF where a semiotics panel is taking place. This signifies an intensely uninteresting experience, and I head over to the PACER room to sit in on some of the presentations to retailers and work on some of the freebie store sketches I'll be handing out that weekend. The marketing men seem a bit disoriented to see me in there spritzing white gouache off a toothbrush at my sketchbook, but by now they're used to this sort of thing from me.

Free food! Free food!

By the elevator, Bart Beatty assures me that anyone who claims to have earned a positive score on the test is full of shit.

Soon, people are heading over to Big Planet for the kick-off party. Good god almighty, but this is a great store. It's bright and well-organized and packed to the rafters with great comics, beautifully displayed. As I looked around, I kept thinking, "If they can thrive while giving this much rackspace to quality and diversity, maybe we do have a chance after all."

Many many brief conversations at the party--Karon and Lee, Michael Z and his wife, Zander Cannon, Batton and Jackie, Dean Haspiel, Nick Bertozzi, and the funnybook team of Talky and Pretty. Foreign accents abound. Cartoonists, publishers and retailers, all packed in together, sip at their beers, wolf down brownies, duck into the back room to take important calls, berate each other for failing to update websites, offer insincere flattery, genuine praise, and well-considered advice. They endorse minis, bands and restaurants. They exchange business cards and words of commiseration. They bitch about Diamond. They make fun of Kochalka. They nod appraisingly at Jason Little's straw boater. They pull books off the shelf and say "THIS you have to read." References and one-liners fly by without pauses for explanation. The rule of the room is no more than one degree of separation, and if you don't know who the players are, you'll pick it up soon enough.

The next day, I'm up reasonably early. I walk a mile or so around Bethesda, snarf down some archetypical home fries at a greasy spoon, put on my snazzy gear, and head down to the second floor to set my space up. Greg McE is near the registration table with a walkie-talkie- then he's gone!- then he's back. Johanna and KC are manning the table, and KC is repeatedly correcting Comic Buyers Guide's error with a big pair of scissors.

I'm in the corner with Jim Ottaviani, and we're trying to decide where to put the monkey.

Rachel Hartman is setting up next to me, arranging her issues of AMY UNBOUNDED. Rachel's table display includes a vase with a freshly cut spray of little white flowers. (Baby's breath, I think.) Throughout the weekend, whenever I need to wet my brushes, I look abashed and say "Umm, Rachel...?" Rachel silently, patiently, holds out the vase to me, and I swish the brush around in it. The flowers seem to grimace.

Speaking of which, the guy who draws Bob the Angry Flower seems angry about something himself, but I'm not sure what.

Jim has decided to put the monkey in the tree the hotel thoughtfully provided. The stern white bust of Niels Bohr sits right in the middle of the black tablecloth, and the trades stand solemnly at the rear. Jim is approaching some big decisions as a publisher and my advice is of no help whatsoever.

Next to Jim is Leland Purvis, who has formed Pack Rabbit Press to self-publish his one-man anthology VOX and a mini, PUBO. Lee's drawing is frigging beautiful, and his stories have remarkable gravity. Keep your eye on this guy, folks. He's got some serious chops and is going to be big someday. Lee also has no real use for the unsolicited advice I offer.

A whole lot of people are asking me where to find Sean Bieri's mini JUMBO JAPE, which I plugged incessantly online. Sean's here but doesn't have a table, so I make him give me a stack of books and I sell them for him. More properly, they sell themsleves. I hand them to people who are hanging out and say "Read the story that starts on page two." One minute later, they hand me three dollars.

Carla Speed McNeil, self-publishing cartoonist of FINDER, has these flowery paper bags that she slips original art into when you buy a piece from her, and I see them constantly throughout the show. I always flag these folks down because I like to see what people bought. And every time, it's something REEEEAAAAL nice. Then they buy something from me. This isn't a conscious strategy, but it's worth pursuing in the future... Hey Carla! Keep selling those pages and we'll both get rich!

A woman, lovely, except for teeth that remind me of a Dan Clowes drawing, approaches my table. She's dressed stylishly, but seems a bit distracted. She flips through WHITEOUT and I tell her about it. She looks at the air immediately in front of my face and asks. "So this is a role-playing game?" "Uhh, no, it's...uh..a story. A graphic novel." She studies the back of the book. "Does it come with dice?" "ehh...it..." She drifts away, pausing to finger Rachel's dying flowers.

Dinner that night is at a Thai place called Thai Place. I'm seated at the foot of the table between Lee Purvis and Linda Medley, with Rachel H and Pam Bliss seated nearby. Linda's publisher hasn't arrived at the show yet, and neither have her books, but she's mellow and completely unperturbed. I suppose it could be the general SPX vibe- the industry might be in trouble, but the medium is in good hands. The table talk is about people and punctuation and hearses and the interchangability of obsessions and livable cities and which animal does so and so most resemble. I forget that I'm not at my con table and let myself turn pompous, spouting as if my butthole opinions have actual value. I turn self-conscious, feeling stupid and uncouth- an overdressed, flabby jackass who laughs at his own jokes. The moment ends when Danny Hellman enters the restaurant, decked out in a mismatched vaudeville suit with full clown makeup. Children squeal with delight and giggle at the very sight of him. He seems uncomfortable but he has a little honk horn and the kids clap and cheer, practically begging him to do some tricks. He looks around to see who has seen him, gives a little honk, then leaves. I feel normal again and the conversation continues.

Everyone kicks in their dinner bucks, and we come up two hundred dollars short. There's a moment of panic, followed by nervous assertions of one's own proper contribution. It turns out that the waiter carried a two into the wrong column. We fail to muster an angry posse to kick his thieving ass from here to Lubbock, and instead depart for the hotel bar.

In the bar, we're all talking our talk, sharing schtick, lighting each other's cigs, chewing the collective cud. There's brilliance in this room, and envy and energy and attitude. Desperation and denial, too. Someone's approaching and you don't want to talk? Give 'em the double finger-gun, smile with an open mouth, raise the eyebrows as if to say, "you the man," and get the hell away before you're trapped.

Saturday is the big day. "Always Be Closing" "A.I.D.A." I've got David Mamet and Alec Baldwin in my head telling me how it's gotta be.

People are more interested in my life drawing at the Expo than they are at other shows. If there's anywhere I can count on a preference for the figure depicted without capes or boots, it's here.

Scott McCloud is pointing something out on a laptop and Will Eisner is looking closely, nodding, wearing a serious expression.

I don't know why, but it's fun to watch Tom Spurgeon holding a mini comic in those big hairy paws of his.

Dinner is at El Guapo, where I'm seated next to Donna Barr, who waggles her fingers making quote marks, and explains to everyone that "comics" is a misnomer, that using the term "drawn books" would change everything and that the "hire and fire" types need to unionize.

Then comes the Ignatzes, which are SRO and move quickly. The sound system isn't powerful enough for the room, so the folks in the back miss out on the speeches and focus instead on liquor and those little quiche thingies.

After the Ignatzes it's the big party upstairs. Two rooms- smoking and non-smoking. The bathtub and bidet are full of beer bottles and ice. It's crowded and hot and people are packed in like a subway at rush hour. Non-smokers flee to the smoking room to get some air. The hotel respectfully requests that you don't sit in the hallway. Hide your beer bottle when you leave please.

I flee to the lobby. "Don't sit there!" I'm warned, "Elevator Boy hawked a loogie."

Up in the smoking room, Elevator Boy and Danny Hellman are discussing Kim Thompson, and what they could do to piss him off. It's comforting when real people live up to their online personae.

Later, Evan Dorkin is sitting in an armchair, ruling the roost. Christ he's funny, and every thing he says cracks the crowd up. He aims his fire at an obnoxious drunk and reduces him to something small, wiggling on its back. Then he's taking on pop culture, then the industry, then various cartoonists. He's unstoppable, and he's claimed the alpha spot in the room one one-liner at a time.

Later, when everyone is tired, Chis Oarr drags them off to an all-night diner. They've got a pig roast and a softball game tomorrow. I've got a six-am flight to catch, and it's almost four now. I'm off, into a limo and Nyquil-ing myself into shape for another eight second transcontinental flight.

Other convention diaries: Mid-Ohio 2000 | San Diego 99 | Wondercon 99 | Wondercon 97 | Motor City 97 | San Diego 97

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