DAY
2
I
wanted to be at the Sheraton by 3 PM so we could check into the hotel
and pick up our passes for the con. This would give us plenty of time
to run by the store, pick our son up from school, and go have lunch
together before we dropped him off at his grandparents’. The Days
of the Dead website stated that VIP pass holder registration began at
2 PM and the rest started at 3. I wanted to be there when it opened
because I felt sure if we waited until 5 when the show actually
started there would be crazy crowds. I was right about that.
Unfortunately I was not able to avoid them.
Our
initial encounters with the hotel staff were quite pleasant. One guy
even told us we should just park in the exterior lot because there
were plenty of spaces and it would be closer to our room. It sounded
good to us, so once we checked in we got in the car and drove outside
only to discover that the exterior lot was extremely small and had no
available spaces. And then because of how small that lot was we
actually had to leave the hotel, drive back around to the front, and
re-enter the covered parking area. I know that doesn’t sound like
much, but when you’re ready to unload your stuff and get it into
the room it is infuriating. Especially knowing the route you are
going to have to take to get your stuff from the car to the room.
You
see, despite the fact that the Sheraton parking garage is physically
attached to the Sheraton hotel, you still have to navigate a
ridiculous path to get from one to the other. A path laden with
stairs, heavy doors, vehicular hazards, and narrow walkways that
literally cannot accommodate more than one person at a time (and not
even that for some of your more donut-oriented con-goers) to the
point where if you encounter somebody walking in the opposite
direction you must have a brief battle of wills to determine who is
going to step out into traffic to continue on their way. There are
also huge cracks in the pavement that will quite literally snatch
your suitcase out of your hand. I know because it happened to me.
Our
room was located off of what is actually quite a beautiful pool area
that you had to walk through to get to where the convention was being
held. Hotel pools tend to be stocked with enough chlorine to
sterilize a herd of buffalo, so I’m pretty sure in the course of
traversing that area all weekend I inhaled my yearly allowance of
poisonous gas. But it was beautiful. I see why they have the pinup
party there at Dragon*Con.
The
room itself was surprising, in that I had stayed at the Sheraton
before and did not remember being displeased. I guess the room wasn’t
so bad aside from being too hot and feeling like it was old. The
bathroom was the real problem:
That
is a tiny bathroom. You could poop and brush your teeth at the same
time. And the shower measured six feet and four and one-quarter
inches from tub bottom to ceiling. I know this because I am six feet
and four inches tall and could feel the stubble on my head grazing
the ceiling every time I took a shower, which was often because we
were at a con. In order to wash and rinse my head I had to stand like
James Hetfield does when he’s really jamming out, which is slightly
dangerous to do in a tub where the designers have decided to go with
a very slight pebbling on the bottom rather than any sort of actual
slip-proof material. All of this is because back in 1822 when the
hotel was built people were only four-and-a-half feet tall and didn’t
brush their teeth anyway.
Also
there was no garbage can in the bathroom, so we just threw our trash
on the floor.
I’m
kidding. We would never disrespect a hotel staff in that way. We
threw it out the window onto Courtland Avenue. I’m sure the bums
made nests out of it or something.
Once
we got settled in – by which I mean “Once we fought over the two
coat hangers and who got to put their suitcase where and used the
old-timey thermostat which consisted of a canary perched over a
little flame to adjust the room temperature from ‘sweltering’ to
‘mildly stifling’” – we went downstairs to the official Days
of the Dead staging ground.
One
thing I do like about Days of the Dead is that it is all contained in
one hotel so you’re not walking all over the place. It’s all
right there.
The
registration booth was housed in the same spot where Dragon*Con
staffers who can’t pass the shape recognition test are stored. I
was hoping the DOTD staffers would be more competent. It was well
after three o’clock by the time we got down there, so I thought we
should have an easy enough time getting our badges or whatever. Mrs.
Troublemaker was able to present her e-mail for a free pass and get
hers no problem, which led to the first major ha-ha of the con.
She
was issued one of those crappy plastic wristbands like water parks
use. The ones that snap. The guy that put it on her fastened it about
as tight as it would go and then didn’t fold the extra length back
in like you’re supposed to, so my wife had no circulation and about
seven inches of plastic sticking straight out of her wrist. I told
her to go back and get another one or else she’d end up being
pissed off by it all weekend, but for some reason she wouldn’t.
I,
on the other hand, was not able to get my pass despite the fact that
when my wife gave her name they asked if she meant my name. The
regular registration had been moved back to five o’clock. We later
found out that this was due to (one of many instances of) dickery on
the part of the Sheraton. I have to give the DOTD crew credit for not
laying that out. It was actually very professional that they just
pushed the time back without mentioning that the hotel was
responsible. I’m not sure I would have been so classy. Mrs.
Troublemaker definitely
wouldn’t have been.
We
went back to the room and drank some beers to wait for five o’clock
to roll around.
A
quick word on beers – the DCW Hooligans like to enjoy an adult
beverage or two while at conventions. In our rooms, on the floor,
walking around; this is not uncommon. Lots of people tool around the
con floor with their beverage of choice in hand. It’s a thing.
So
when we left the room to go register and make our first rounds of the
con, we brought beers. Nobody seemed surprised or said anything to
us. Indeed, we saw plenty of other folks doing the same thing. I got
my badge and we headed over to the dealer room to talk to Monkey and
see how setup went.
Side
Note: I wholly approve of the ticketing method Days of the Dead
utilized and wish Dragon*Con would move to something like this. You
buy your ticket online and then have the choice of printing it out or
downloading an app and presenting your phone to the staffer. I did
the app. As I was standing in line, a staffer came out and scanned my
phone with her phone and then just handed me my badge. That was it.
I’m glad it was a lady because, quite frankly, it was a bit sexy.
Like in Barbarella when she has hand sex with Dildano. Dildano. Heh.
The
dealer room seemed much larger this year, with a larger variety of
sellers. When you walked in the first booth was a display of
customized sixth scale action figures of various characters and skill
levels. The offerings ranged from “zombie” ninja turtles that had
some red paint smeared on them to a fairly impressive figure of
Dexter to a whole section of King Diamonds:
There
was also a Human Centipede and a Linnea Quigley:
Most
of them looked like more time than skill was involved, but it was
still an impressive display and there were plenty of neat ideas.
Everything was crazy expensive.
There
were aisles to either side of the action figures and we took the one
on the right. There were a few booths of weird stuff – dead things
in jars and test tubes, bone sculptures, contact lenses with various
weirdo things on them. I wish I had taken more pictures in there, but
I felt like these people were trying to sell stuff and if you wanted
to see it you should buy it. I dunno – I’m weird about people’s
crafts. I’m always worried about treading on their personal ideas
about selling. Or maybe I’m afraid they think my camera will steal
their souls.
To
the left was a booth with absurdly overpriced toys. The guy had the
Jason X figure by McFarlane that I’ve been wanting, but there was
this sticker on it that said “80”. I can’t imagine that was
actually the price because that is completely fucking insane for an
American made 6” scale action figure from (?). Now, that may
actually be the market value, but I’m sure as heck not paying it.
Especially while NECA still has the Friday the 13th
license and could conceivably crank one out. It was kind of weird,
because this place had a display of Masters of the Universe Classics
at fairly reasonable prices. I’m not sure why everything else was
so steep.
Next
to that guy was another guy with only slightly overpriced stuff,
including a 2002 Castle Grayskull. I was very tempted by that
Grayskull. It was mint in box and priced at $100 – a decent deal in
my opinion. But I’ve already got an okay vintage one and I’ll
have the new one next year, so I passed. The guy also had a whole bin
of loose 2002 Masters in good shape, but there were none that I
needed.
Just
around the corner was Cinema Wasteland, where I made my first purchase. I had
forgotten to dip into my cash before we left the room, but I had
to have this t-shirt:
There
were all kinds of other dealers in that place – one guy had
custom-made Lemarchand’s puzzle boxes, including the Lament
Configuration. These were absolutely fantastic, they were functional
(as in they had moving parts, not that they summoned Cenobites – I
think), and a steal at $125 for a non-musical one. I really wish I
had bought one, although I think there would be nights where I was
down in the Man Room and would maybe get a little creeped out if I
had one on the shelf. This is the one item from the con that I keep
thinking about and wishing I had bought.
It
was interesting to note that most of the dealers were artists. Not so
long ago you would go to a con and find a veritable flea market of
toys, videos, t-shirts, and various other manufactured collectibles.
But now, thanks to the internet, such things are much easier to
obtain than they once were. What’s slightly harder to get is
hand-made art, like this one-of-a-kind piece we got from Chris Hamer
of Urbnpop.com:
I
saw it when he put it up on Instagram after drawing it and knew Mrs.
Troublemaker would want it. I almost feel guilty for what we paid for
the thing. It was a steal.
Another
item that I can’t stop thinking about but have a little more access
to than those puzzle boxes is this awesome painting of Leatherface
that Belligerent Monkey
did:
I
really love it and keep thinking about it. There’s something about
this one that really appeals to me. But when we were at Hamer’s
table I half-jokingly told Mrs. Troublemaker that we had to stop
buying local art at all of these shows. While I love supporting local
artists and feel particularly lucky that we have so many great
local artists, I feel like when we’re at a show with folks from all
over we should take advantage of it and buy some non-local stuff. But
these Atlanta people keep making all the right stuff and we keep
buying it.
And
then there’s Galaxy of Junk, who once again had an amazing
selection of vintage stuff, but just not the things that would
scratch my itch this time. Don’t; get me wrong – we still bought
some stuff:
But
no “big-ticket” items this time. I’m sort of halfway regretting
not picking up the Snake Mountain and Fright Zone playsets they had.
Okay – I’m totally regretting the Snake Mountain. The Fright Zone
is a little too silly; and also I prefer the more technological
version. But I wouldn’t mind having a Snake Mountain in good shape.
I’m also kind of regretting not buying – or at least taking a
picture of – the Star Fortress that I mentioned in last year’s post. They still
had it, and on Saturday I suddenly had the resolve that I was going
to buy it. But when I went back to the booth it was gone. It’s
probably for the best, as I don’t have anywhere to put it and it
certainly doesn’t go with any of my stuff (or anybody else’s –
it’s a Star Wars knockoff item and not part of any line).
The
Dealer Room was full of great stuff, but I just didn’t really feel
like spending a whole lot of money. Which, again, is for the best.
Oh, and it was during that initial walk around the Dealer Room that I
took my first actual picture at the con:
This
young lady was walking around all weekend with that yellow snake
wrapped around various parts of her body, totally unconcerned with
its presence. Snakes don’t generally bother me, but I also don’t
go out of my way to hang out with them. But this was certainly a
remarkable enough image to want to capture. I found out later that
there was a whole table full of reptiles in the back of the Dealer
Room that you could have your picture taken with for a cost that was
slightly more than some of the human gusets. There was a small
alligator (or crocodile – I still can’t tell sometimes) with its
mouth taped shut and also a huge-ass boa or python or whatever. I’m
not sure how I feel about all of that. Like, that giant snake was in
a tiny little tub that couldn’t have been more than 3’ x 2’. Is
that okay? Didn’t it feel cramped? I don’t know. I had a very
specific reason for not taking a picture of that table. You see –
there was one of those hairy spiders the size of a small dog sitting
in an open Tupperware dish right on top.
Did
you see that? What I just said? A
fucking giant spider in an open box.
With nothing between it and hundreds of delicious people faces but
open air. And it was frisky, too. It wasn’t cowering in the back
corner of that little box like something 1/1000th
my size should. It was crawling and jumping around, just waiting for
a flash to go off so it could zero in on the source and fly out of
that box and eat a face. Fuck that spider and fuck those people for
having that spider. Screw taking a picture, it took every ounce of
will in my being not to come back with a flaming bottle of gasoline
and torch the whole table. But that would have involved getting too
close.
Okay
– enough of the Dealer Room that I barely spent any money in. This
post is already long enough as it is.
Ooh!
Here’s Leatherface from Texas
Chainsaw Massacre Part 2:
It’s
not often you see that one.
By
the time we took in the Dealer Room and chatted with everybody we
chatted with, it was dinner time. We had arranged to have dinner with
Beau and Sally since we never seem to get to hang out with them as
much as we’d like to, and they suggested a place called Sweet Georgia’s Juke Joint. It was only a couple of blocks away and
promised good old-fashioned Southern cuisine. I’m more open to
trying new places than I used to be, as one of two things is going to
happen – we’re either going to find a great new place to eat or
I’m going to have a great story about a terrible dining experience.
The
place was very nice. Nice to the point where I felt like if I walked
around taking pictures I would probably look like kind of a rube. I
already felt underdressed in cargo pants and a t-shirt under my
purple hoodie and didn’t want to add to it. Oh, and we were also
the only white people in there. I might as well have been wearing my
mask – we wouldn’t have stood out any more.
This
may not be the time or place, but I do want to point something out
that I have only recently thought about; mostly because I have spent
most of my life not caring too
much about the racial mix of any situation. I’m not gonna lie and
say I don’t notice. I certainly do. I think it’s stupid and
disingenuous of anybody to claim they do not notice or care about
race and I also think the concept of a “post-racial” world is
fucking ludicrous and quite frankly undesirable. We all need to have
our identities. But I’m much more concerned about the culture
of a person than the color of their skin. If I am surrounded by a
bunch of thugs with gold teeth and neck tattoos and sports jerseys
and knee-high waistbands I don’t care if they’re black, white, or
Asian. I am not comfortable. Same goes for people in suits carrying
briefcases.
But
there’s no denying it’s weird to be the only person of a certain
color in any situation, or even just the minority. And I guess that’s
what black folks feel like a
lot. I’m not going to
pretend to understand or even begin to guess at what it’s like to
be black in our society and I’m sure it’s different in different
places around the country. It’s just that it’s occurred to me
lately that there’s an inherent something about being The Other.
Varying degrees of tension depending on the situation. Because no
matter how little you care about skin color, when there’s less of
you than there are of them it’s weird.
I’m
not sure how well I articulated any of that and I’m not trying to
make any kind of big statement or anything. It’s just something
that’s been on my mind lately and it happened to come up again at
dinner the other night.
So
anyway, Sweet Georgia’s Juke Joint was very nice. The staff was
friendly in a very genuine way. Our waiter was very conversational
and generous with laughs, but not in a “Tip me well” way, just in
a way that suggested he enjoyed what he was doing. He joked around
and was quite charming. There was a band that played a short set of
covers and they were very good. Not too loud, just funky enough, and
pleasant. They played some Dave Brubaker and a version of “Girl
From Epenema” that you could have had wine and sex to; something I
would have previously thought impossible.
The
menu was a bit pricey by my standards, but I’m a cheap bastard. I
ordered shrimp and grits and Mrs. Troublemaker had catfish and grits.
While we waited for the food the waiter brought our drinks out. The
place served “moonshine”. I say “moonshine” in quotes because
I really don’t know that it came from a still in some hillbilly’s
backyard, but it was powerful. They were out of the peach that I
ordered and brought cherry. It was good. It was really
good. Like, to the point where I specifically avoided ordering
another because I knew it would be Trouble. There was fruit in the
bottom of the Mason jar (yes – of course it was served in a Mason
jar) and when I bit into the raspberry my whole head got warm and the
warmth spread down into my body and I really wanted to either take a
nap or run outside naked. So I only had the one cherry “moonshine”,
which may well have been moonshine.
Beau
ate the rest of the fruit and I think almost fell out of his chair.
We
were still able to talk while the band was playing. I don’t
remember about what, but we had a good time. Once the food came out I
got serious, though. I haven’t had shrimp and grits since we were
sampling possible foods for our wedding. It was the first time I had
that particular combination and I loved it. We didn’t have it at
the wedding because it would have been nine fucking dollars a guest.
The
shrimp and grits was amazing. AMAZING. It was worth every penny of
the nineteen dollars I paid. Dude – amazing.
It was so good that I had to order dessert. We don’t ever order
dessert. It’s ridiculous. You know damn well you’re full after
the entrée and me and the missus just aren’t overly-dessert
people. But if the shrimp and grits were that good, I had
to know what this place’s dessert tasted like. I knew I was pushing
it and that every new thing I did increased the possibility of a
negative experience, but thanks to Beau and Sally’s excellent
restaurant taste we were on a roll.
The
peach cobbler with vanilla ice cream was amazing. AMAZING. Plus I got
the peach fix I had wanted from the moonshine.
By
the time we were done eating the place was packed and the band had
picked up again. It was a great atmosphere with awesome food and
outstanding service. Next time you’re downtown and have a little
extra cash to spend on dinner you need to check out sweet Georgia’s
Juke Joint. I spent about a hundred bucks plus tip on two entrees,
two desserts, two drinks, and probably a couple of beers or more
drinks (because I know Mrs. Troublemaker didn’t have just one drink
– that’s ridiculous). I guess that’s actually pretty great for
such a nice place. I just don’t ever spend a hundred bucks on food
unless I’m at the grocery store.
5
out of 5
Afterwards
we went outside and it was cold as fuck so I made no pretense of
waiting for the slower members of our party as we made our way back
to the Sheraton. It was a downhill walk and I made all haste; to the
point where I left them behind at one intersection:
Whatever,
man. It was really
cold.
Me
and the missus went back to the room so I could get changed and load
up the beer bag. I’ve got to say – the Phantom Murdermaker
costume is my favorite one other than just my speed suit with a mask.
It’s easy to put on and looks great. The only negative is that the
mask is rubber and when it’s on I just sweat constantly. It isn’t
hot because the whole back is open, but just having that thing
sitting on my skin is sweaty. Every once in a while I’d move my
head a certain way or lean down and a little waterfall of sweat would
spill onto my chest. But that just added to the effect and overall
grossness.
Here’s
another Leatherface! This one is Thomas Hewitt from the remake:
That
is a great fucking costume.
I
also really liked this guy:
I
don’t know what the heck he’s supposed to be, but I liked it. I
also liked his commitment to carrying that fucking coffin around all
weekend.
We
met up with the Queen of Crunk, Bear, Rescue John and his new
ladyfriend after dinner. The Queen and Bear were storing beverages in
our room and I just now realized how misleading the names “The
Queen” and “Bear” are when you put them together like that. We
all did shots of Fireball that were only slightly flavored by the
huge smears of lipstick all over the shot glasses. Thusly fueled, we
headed back downstairs to the con area.
The
only thing going on Friday night was the Monster Ball with DJ Tre. We
all still clearly remembered DJ Tre from last year, but despite that
we decided to check it out. It was bad. Pretty much exactly what I
remembered from last year with the bad music and DJ Tre trying really
hard and just not connecting. Not with me, anyway. There was one
major improvement, though. Rather than some idiot in a creepy baby
head mask and a diaper they had a girl with a light-up hula hoop:
And
she was totally digging it. That alone made this thing about fifty
percent better. But it still topped off at “Lame”, so we left.
The
only other place to hang out was the Sheraton bar on the third floor.
This is where the first instance (that I was aware of) of the
Sheraton being King Party Pooper happened. We were asked to take our
beers outside. So me and Bear went out to stand beside the pool and
finish our beers and, quite frankly, the presence of authority
brought me down. I am thirty-six years old and I don’t need to be
told what to do when I’m on vacation. I was a paying guest of the
hotel and as long as I wasn’t starting fights or breaking shit or
pissing in the pool I don’t think those people should have had a
word to say to me. It really irritated me.
And
on that note I’m gonna close out Day Two. I lost track of where
everybody else went because I had been exiled from the bar, so I went
back to the room and watched something on Comedy Central until I fell
asleep.
The
next night would only get worse.
Come back tomorrow for part 3 - The Ghost Of Wrestling PAST!
Come back tomorrow for part 3 - The Ghost Of Wrestling PAST!
-Phantom
Love your mask, PT! And thank god you didn't post a pic of that Human Centipede figure. The only person worse than the creator of that movie is the one who said "hey, this needs to be an action figure!".
ReplyDeleteThanks, man! I'm very proud of it. It turned out exactly how I had pictured it. I'm with you on the Human Centipede thing. Those movies are worthless. Not even a "so good it's bad" kind of thing.
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