The day’s first visible sign manifested as an alcoholic 21 year old girl. One of my fellow passengers. In our three hour train journey from Los Angeles, she consumed a bottle of Heineken, emptied a small flask of Yager into Redbull over ice and downed a can of Bud Lite. Her unlucky travel companion, thrust by fate beside her, was a Genuine Hollywood Agent, wheeling and dealing into his Blackberry whilst the creature to his right grew increasingly soused. He thought the outlines were funny, a little like Noises Off. Farcical, if you will.

She conversed into her iPhone, most of which went like this: “Yeah like you had your arms around her so I was like fuck you, like why am I going to stay at this party for him, like am I retarded?” or “Yeah, we should totally move to San Diego. I know this guy who is six feet six, Justin and I broke up the day after I met him at a party. I will totally share a room with you, I am not even lying. I will strip for the money if I have to do. OMG dude, do you know what I was doing last night? I was totally up on the bar and my skirt was so short. OMG.”

I contented myself with our old friend Harry Paget Flashman. These last few days I’ve spent some time giving ‘em a squeeze for Flashy, so the old rogue’s company got us a little misty eyed at the thought that soon I’d be in the middle of the best working example of the overly-precious and barely comprehensible theories of Guy Debord. But, really, what truck does any American have with theory? I’m here down in the gutter of San Diego. As I write, a 400 pound Bangladeshi admires his fat in the mirror, pointing out the folds.

This is how the day went: I got off the train and immediately discovered something awry with my mate Arafat Kazi, whose over generous cousin is giving us shelter and safe harbor– but, I figured, perhaps only his flight was delayed. I navigated to the Convention Center and registered as a Pro, taking advantage of my new found status amongst the few and mighty to also snag badges for Arafat and my ever ambiguous pal, elly jonez.

I realized, staring into the gaping maw of the floor show, that I was about to enter the malestrom carrying 40 pounds of luggage. Ho, ho, says I, better not. Rather I shall sally forth to a restaurant and wait at the bar until I figure out what’s up with Kazi. Needless to say, one hour and a broken iPhone later, my luggage was in a car with the man and I wandered by my lonesome in the Gaslight District. There wasn’t much on the streets– just the usual mishmash of riffraff dressed like zombies– so I traversed inward.

Once on the floor, I noticed two things. First: the retreat of the Big Media Million Dollar Display. (Best example: our old pals from the SyFy network, who last year gave us harbor inside their spaceship display, don’t even HAVE a display.) Second: the reemergence of the weirdo back issue dealer. I’ve pawed through more underground comix in the last 12 hours than I have in the last ten years. One I truly wanted, but I punked out, knowing that buying on the first day is a slippery slope. Keep purchases to as late as possible, kemosabe. If the book is gone, it was not meant to be. Don’t be a loon. In any event, I got the general impression that this is the Recessionary Comic Con. Still big, still full of shit I don’t care about, but not the balls to the wall extravaganza of the two years previous.

After a handful of hours, my mouth grew sour. And then I realized: dude, you’ve got 3 more days. You’re in San Diego until Monday. Why did you think this was possible? You’ve only ever managed six hours. And now you have days. And you are actually, you know, part of the machinery. You’re a pro, you got a laminate badge holder that proves it. So I took a break from the floor and caught the Top Shelf panel. As far as these things go, it was much less embarrassing than usual and surprisingly detailed about the mechanisms of the company’s editorial process, apparently one that is considered very hands-on. The crowd asked decent questions, but no one had guts enough to pose the most logical extension of this idea: if you’re so up on editing your writers, can’t you tell Alan Moore to stop writing sex? I mean, please.

Speaking of things beyond the pale, my brain snapped like a rubber band against the nape of a nerd’s neck when I saw an overly-tanned girl dressed as Slutty Pikachu. I’m sure there’s pictures on Flickr, if you care to find them. Anyway, I’m far from a prude– I ain’t a mullah– but lord, no. It’s gone too far. Something about cheddar colored flesh contrasting with the blazing lightning yellow of the Pikachu costume. It made me a little nauseous.

And that, really, is how the day played out. It wasn’t particularly eventful, but it had shocks and horrors. Enough to prepare me for the dawn of the weekend. So we’ll see what happens.

Over and out.