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Last weekend I attended C2E2, my first convention since New York in 2019. As I recall moments from the show, there’s one in particular that gets me a little misty and reminds me why I go to these.
We were at Chris Claremont’s table — that’s not the moment, but it’s what led us there.
There’s a certain understanding, a certain kayfabe, that comes with interacting with Claremont at a con. If you talk to him about the X-Men, he will explain, at great length, what he doesn’t like about the books now. He’s read them — he’s had to, for certain things no one is at liberty to discuss — he just doesn’t get them. If he asks about a certain character, and you tell him what they’re up to, he will invariably slap his hands against his forehead, hang his head in exasperation. If you’re really lucky, he’ll say a swear. And he will go on like this. For a while.
This all sounds like I’m giving you permission to troll Chris Claremont. Here’s the thing. It’s a bit. He knows it. You know it. He knows you know it. It’s a dance. He’s an English drama enthusiast. He’s giving the fans what they want the best way he’s currently equipped. And there’s an inherent sadness in knowing the thing you did at the height of your power, for years, is out of your hands. The X-Men are his adult children. They lived in his head-house for 18 years, went off to college, came back with all sorts of shoulder pads and big guns and the Legacy virus. They’re not his babies anymore. But people still ask about them like they are.
“How’s Kitty? Is she still taking dance classes?”
“Well, no, she goes by Kate now and I don’t see her anymore because she’s a pirate with a drinking problem.”
It’s funny for a moment, but if you peel back the layers it gets dark very quickly.
But I’m getting away from the point. We’re at the table, talking to Chris about Nanny and Orphan-Maker and how they’re in the hole with Sabretooth, which leads down all manner of paths — swords, Mystique and Destiny, Moira. A crowd has gathered around us. Which is to say a line has formed behind us, losing patience as the con day winds down and they want to get their copy of Uncanny #2-whatever signed. We signal apologies, forgetting they can’t read us mouthing “Sorry” through masks.
Eventually we come to the topic of Apocalypse and Genesis. One of us says, “Who doesn’t love a large, mean wife?” The woman next to us lets out an “Amen.” She is dressed as Quentin Quire, right down to the fuchsia mohawk, “Cyclops was right” T-shirt and AC/DC schoolboy outfit. I kept checking with her, making sure we weren’t monopolizing the space and she’d gotten the interaction she’d wanted with Chris. She was enraptured by the whole thing. Who knew you’d come to meet a legend and stay for a free show?
That — THAT — is the thing I missed most about conventions during the pandemic. That moment when you make these minor connections with strangers, because ultimately comics is a small community and we all just want to have a good time watching a creator tell stories in person the way they’ve done for us on the page.
You spend an entire day walking in circles around a large, enclosed space. By the end of the day, your feet are killing you, your back might hurt a little. You might need a second shower. But you’ve collected something better than back issues, autographs or Funko POPs. You’ve collected moments. Stories. Things that will remain burned in your brain for years.
Cons are an opportunity to tell a creator how much you love their work. To grab a drink with friends you’ve only ever talked to online. To show off that PVC Final Fantasy Buster Sword you’ve been working on for a year — even if you have no place to put it down when it gets heavy. To go beyond the surface-level internet discourse of “Should Bruce Wayne give away all his money?” and have a real conversation where you see each other and don’t just talk past each other for likes and lulz.
This weekend I watched Chris Claremont give his version of the Patton Oswalt filibuster from Parks and Recreation but with X-Men: Dark Phoenix. I watched Rob Liefeld stand on a chair and yell about black cherry soda and Marc Silvestri’s beach house. I talked to creators who were generous with their time and happy to be out in the world, masked and vaxxed and running through Sharpies and coffee in equal measure. I got to hang out with members of the CXF crew who DON’T live in New Jersey. I got to meet Asimov Underscore Motherf&$%ing Fangirl (Real ones know).
But ask me to condense the whole weekend down into one word, and all I can do is say this:
Amen.
Dan Grote is the editor-in-chief of ComicsXF, having won the site by ritual combat. By day, he’s a newspaper editor, and by night, he’s … also an editor. He co-hosts WMQ&A: The ComicsXF Interview Podcast with Matt Lazorwitz. He lives in New Jersey with his wife, two kids and two miniature dachshunds, and his third, fictional son, Peter Winston Wisdom.
