Cold snap for the comic book convention

Phone rings, midday Sunday.  It's ol' Jim Kidwell.  They're having a comic book convention in the basement of the Memorial Coliseum.  Would I wanna go check it out?

Maty's all wrapped up in her housework and her cooking and her Lifetime Channel heroine housewife movies and I'm faced with the prospect of yard work, so, yeah, I think the comic book convention sounds like fun.

I layer up against the cold and pull my hood.  Cold is early this year.  There's the feel of snow in the air and here it is, not yet Thanksgiving Day.  The rain is falling in big, heavy drops pregnant with possibility.  And sure enough, I catch glimpses of wet flakes cutting through the corners of my vision, as I look out the fog-edged window of the MAX train.  Snow in November. That's unusual.

Greg Oden's image greets me as I walk into the Rose Quarter.  There is a sense of tragedy about that young man.  Unrealized potential. 

The air is bracing and fresh.  The West Hills are over there across the river.  Mist shrouds their pates in obscurity, like the befuddling thoughts of a mind at the meridian of waking and sleep.  Steel Bridge adds a splash of russet to the base of a portrait:  ghosts fading into the loving evergreen darkness.  Beyond, gray oblivion.

There are quite a few folks at the comic book convention, but Jim is easy to spot. He's a head taller than most.  We gander about for a while.  I'm on the lookout for something to read.  I've yet to find any comic book or graphic novel that can match Watchmen for craftsmanship and aesthetic value.  But I'm always looking.

Some folks have set up a Star Wars panorama for gag photos.  I snap a shot on the sly and shirk my moral responsibility by avoiding the tip jar.  Chewbacca looks grumpy and middle-aged, and I was never a fan of those flicks anyway.

Over in one corner, we find comic artist Pia Guerra.  Very nice woman, with immense talent.  She did some of the art for Y:  the Last Man, which Jim recommends if we can find a copy.

We look around, talk to the vendors, search the displays, but there is none to be had.  On Jim's recommendation, I pick up a copy of the Transmetropolitan:  Back on the Street instead.

Darkness is already coming down as I quick-step it to the MAX stop. Snow in November. We had a short summer this year, and winter's already crowding us. Well, so be it. It might be a little longer this year; it might be a little colder. But it's just another winter. Let it come.