Toward the end of the day, we asked Ryan Sook if he had any dinner plans, and he invited us to join him and a couple of his self-publishing friends, Alex Sheikman and Norm Felchle. As the con was wrapping up for the day, and I was over visiting with him and Ryan, Mick Gray asked what we were up to for dinner, and Ryan invited him along as well.

Elizabeth and I talked with Ryan about coming down to his home in Cambria and spending some time with him. His wife had offered when we saw them at Wondercon, and it sounded like fun. We didn’t realize he had a four hour drive to get home, and told him we’d reciprocate, and let him stay with us for the next Wonder- or Super-Con. He said he may just take us up on it. That would be a fun slumber party.

We just walked across the street for dinner, because we thought that would be quick and convenient. The restaurant said to seat ourselves, so we picked out a table in back and waited. No one came to bring us menus or water or see how we were doing. It didn’t bother us too much, because we were enjoying ourselves visiting. But then a couple other tables filled, and the waitress went to each of them and gave them menus, but was still ignoring us.

Finally we caught her attention when she was taking the other tables’ orders, so she brought enough menus for half of us, and took our drink orders. I ordered water.

A little later, she brought our drinks, but didn’t bring water for anyone, including me, who’d ordered it. To her credit, she realized it, and said in front of everyone that she’d bring my water. She was gone for awhile, again, and when we finally saw her, she returned to take our order, but forgot my water again. Again she said she’d bring it, and again she disappeared. Finally she brought my water, and that was the last we saw of her for awhile, except when she was checking on the other tables, but she never made eye contact with us, and probably would have pretended she didn’t see or hear us if we stood on the table shouting and kicking our drinks at her.

So we continued to visit, and enough time has passed that we’re watching the other tables getting their food. She doesn’t even check on us. We just don’t see her again.

We had probably gotten there sometime before 6:30 (the con had ended at 6:00, so that’s a conservative estimate). Finally eight o’clock rolls around, we’ve finished our drinks an hour ago, and still no word. She was still helping the other tables, and Elizabeth overheard our waitress tell them that the kitchen was now closed for the night.

Finally, she came around to us, and informed us there had been a situation in the kitchen, and she was terribly sorry, but it would be a bit before we got our food. How long? She didn’t want to specify, but we wouldn’t let her go until we pinned her down, at least to an hourly estimate. Finally she guessed, fifteen minutes? She asks if she could bring us more drinks, or maybe some bread. And we’re thinking, is there some reason you didn’t do either of those things an hour and a half ago?

Meanwhile, Ryan Sook needs to make a four hour drive home, so he gets up and says his goodbyes with an empty stomach. On his way out, he tells the waitress to please cancel his order.

A round of drinks and bread comes, and eventually our food too. Of course they bring Ryan’s meal, but to her credit, the waitress realizes this, and she tells us they won’t charge us. We finish and wait awhile longer for our bill. We don’t see the waitress again. When we finally got a random employee’s attention sweeping, we are told that the cook cut himself, but was too afraid to let anyone know. He tried to hide it from everyone, but finally he lost enough blood, he decided he had to go the hospital. For some reason he decided to do this by leaving and not telling anyone. When the kitchen staff realized what happened (who knows how much later), they had to close the kitchen down to get it cleaned and sanitary again. It’s a hell of a story, anyways.

We asked three people for the bill, and each one said they would make sure we got it, and then disappear. When the bill finally came, it of course still had Ryan’s meal on it, but we decided it’s worth our time to just pay for it, if it will only save us from having to wait for who-the-fuck-knows how much longer for a new bill. We walked out of the restaurant at 9pm, ready to set the goddamn place and all its staff on fire.

Getting to visit with the guys a little

Because we were there so long waiting to eat, we got some good visits in. I asked Ryan if he was still choosing not to go exclusive with any one company, and he told me he felt it was just smarter, not to get locked down. He said he’s been feeling like he’s just doing the same thing over and over, with superhero comics, and he’s losing interest in it. He said he wants to write his own stories, but he he’s having difficulty convincing editors to give him a chance. He mentioned a few of his story ideas, and I think they sound like fun. Of course, I have a bias for noir-type elements, and his stories would fall into those worlds. That was what caught my eye about his work when I first became aware of him. How his worlds were so shadow-filled, and dark.

Ryan and Mick were saying that at every convention, they only make one request, and that is that they don’t be placed near the porn stars. And they are still put over by the porn stars together, most every convention. (So if you can’t ever find them, now you know where to look.) This weekend, they said they were right by this woman who would offer willing men to use what she called her “hot seat.” I believe they would pay her, and then she would invite them to come back behind her table, and she and her john would both kind of squat down, so we couldn’t see exactly what was going on, and they’d be down there for a little while, and then when they finished whatever secret things they were doing, the guy would come back out again. “The hot seat.” I’m beginning to think I need to come up with a gimmick like that…

We discussed our personal “arch-nemeses” in the convention circuit. What’s hardest for a lot of us is the sketchers. The guys who make money drawing sketches of Wolverine or the Hulk or Spawn. What’s frustrating is that they’re so successful at it. It riles me to think how much more money they’re making than I could ever hope to make at a convention. I’ve got books! I published them! I’ve gotten paid to do professional work! My self-published work is a professional product! Why, o why?! It’s clearly just jealosy.

We were sitting across from a sketcher this week, who was always strutting around and talking really loud, so that we could hear any interesting thing he had to say. And he looked pretty busy the whole convention. And he had usually three or more people swarming around him non-stop, often a whole gaggle of them at his table.

He strutted over once to introduce himself, and looked over my books and accidentally dropped one. He picked it up and apologized, then strutted back to his booth.

Mick said, once he came to a convention at this very convention center, and as he pulled his car into the parking garage, his engine caught fire. He leapt out in stark fear and confusion, and one of his personal “arch-nemeses” happened to be right there. This “arch-nemesis” acted cool and fast. He took action into his own hands, disregarding his own safety, grabbed Mick’s fire extinguisher from Mick’s inexperienced, panicked hands, and put the fire out like a pro, saving Mick’s car, which seriously could have exploded or been totaled by the fire damage. Mick laughed, and said he had to admit that his antagonism stemmed from him saving Mick and making him not feel like a man.

Lots of good laughs.