My dad used to refer to something called a "smoke-out." He defined it as a bunch of people (my mental image involved middle-aged men in suits) in a car with the windows rolled up, puffing away on their cigarettes (the men in my version had cigars), trying to stay in the smokey car as long as possible. The loser was the first one to crack a window to find relief from the cancer incubator.
The Superman Festival became my smoke-out, complete with spandex, taped up black-framed glasses, Superman shields heat-applied to cheap t-shirts, and pasty white skin. This version of smoke-out will hereforth be called "Geek-Out." First one to flee, shaking and muttering, loses.
Two weekends ago, San dragged me down to Metropolis, Illinois, to attend the Superman Festival. This trip would fulfill his ten-year old fantasy that had been previously expressed by hanging a postcard on the refrigerator door with Supergirl magnets. Being the good girlfriend, I dropped him off near the festivities on Saturday morning before going cake-tasting with my mom. I then rejoined him for lunch and an afternoon of Geek-Out.
After preparing myself with caffeine and sugar, I returned to see what state of hysteria San would be in as a result of overexposure to Geek. I drove around downtown Metropolis, skirting the closed-off streets, scouting out a parking space. Luckily for me, most drivers who aren't citizens of an urban area are terrified of parallel parking, so I found a free street spot pretty easily. I parked and called San, who reported that he was standing next to the giant Superman statue. This statement immediately begged the question: where is the giant Superman statue? I walked into the middle of the festival, gazed upon the phallic climbing wall directly in front of me, looked to my left down the rows of vendors' trailers selling fried everything with a side of fake tattoo, then looked to my right, past the comic book store with a plastic Superman suspended in a flying pose from the wall of the building, toward the fourteen foot tall effigy of the Man of Steel. I would find San in that direction.
Weaving between the local patrons sporting logo t-shirts and cutoff denim shorts, I ventured into the slowly growing throng of festival-goers. I located San under some trees, just as a band of superheros in surprisingly detailed costumes walked up to the steps of the nearby building for a photo shoot. San nearly jizzed his pants as he captured the posed scenes with my little Nikon point-and-shoot. I laughed to myself as Supergirl and Wonderwoman discussed the visible bruises on Supergirl's legs, which were a result of a carseat incident. Supergirl was either a mom of several small children, or a preschool teacher. Even though tempted, I resisted the urge to crack the window to escape the ever-increasing level of geek. I'm not one to admit defeat within the first fifteen minutes.
We walked around the festival, and I marvelled (haha...I'm so punny) at the elaborate costumes and the amount of pasty-pale skin that normally would never be shown to the world. There was an uncomfortable amount of ass-cheek hanging out of bathing suit bottoms in a very unattractive manner, and a few beer bellies that weren't accustomed to being stifled by spandex one-sies and drawn in by utility belts.
Lunch consisted of soggy hot wings at a local bar with a funny but not particularly memorable name. It stayed in my good favor because it protected us from the sun and had air conditioning.
After lunch we sat through a Q&A with the woman who wrote the comic Birds of Prey for several years. Rumor is that Wonderwoman is involved in this particular comic. The questions weren't very interesting, and the woman avoided expressing any non-sanctioned opinions. A young man sat in front of us with a melting airbrush tattoo of the Superman shield, oversized aviator glasses, and a chic haircut. I'm not sure who he was supposed to be. As a followup question to learning that the woman had begun her adult life as a hair stylist, he asked the woman - who was a writer, not an artist - how she felt the first time she drew hair in a comic. Ultra-genius geekdom at work, folks.
The next task was to procure a funnel cake, which was unfortunately very successful, and left me feeling like I drank a quarter-cup of warm oil. At this point of the day, with a belly full of ick and skin tired of being in the sun, I was reaching for the switch to roll down the window and ditch. I finally got San to agree to a break, so we headed back to my parents' house for dinner.
After dinner we picked up my aunt to return to see Superman and the Mole-Men. Ah, 1950's era film, made in a time before CGI became more common than fake breasts. This part of the day was actually enjoyable - the film wasn't too long, and it had a nice moral to the story. The festival organizers fed us cupcakes and lemonade (awww!) before showing some fan films. Nine films were screened, each less than ten minutes in length. Four of those films were by a fellow from St. Louis, who was apparently getting jiggy with one of the emcees. Probably the puppeteer, who had his arm inside a donkey for the last two hours of the evening and thought himself funny. Despite his prolific second career as a director, the St. Louis fellow didn't win a prize. Just an honorable mention for being a good sport. And for forcing his family to be volunteer actors in his filmography.
As we left, costumed superheros wandered into the building for the ultimate Geek-Out: an evening Dance Party. We took some pictures of San molesting the Superman statue, and then fled. Geek-Out over, Superman won.
The Superman Festival became my smoke-out, complete with spandex, taped up black-framed glasses, Superman shields heat-applied to cheap t-shirts, and pasty white skin. This version of smoke-out will hereforth be called "Geek-Out." First one to flee, shaking and muttering, loses.
Two weekends ago, San dragged me down to Metropolis, Illinois, to attend the Superman Festival. This trip would fulfill his ten-year old fantasy that had been previously expressed by hanging a postcard on the refrigerator door with Supergirl magnets. Being the good girlfriend, I dropped him off near the festivities on Saturday morning before going cake-tasting with my mom. I then rejoined him for lunch and an afternoon of Geek-Out.
After preparing myself with caffeine and sugar, I returned to see what state of hysteria San would be in as a result of overexposure to Geek. I drove around downtown Metropolis, skirting the closed-off streets, scouting out a parking space. Luckily for me, most drivers who aren't citizens of an urban area are terrified of parallel parking, so I found a free street spot pretty easily. I parked and called San, who reported that he was standing next to the giant Superman statue. This statement immediately begged the question: where is the giant Superman statue? I walked into the middle of the festival, gazed upon the phallic climbing wall directly in front of me, looked to my left down the rows of vendors' trailers selling fried everything with a side of fake tattoo, then looked to my right, past the comic book store with a plastic Superman suspended in a flying pose from the wall of the building, toward the fourteen foot tall effigy of the Man of Steel. I would find San in that direction.
Weaving between the local patrons sporting logo t-shirts and cutoff denim shorts, I ventured into the slowly growing throng of festival-goers. I located San under some trees, just as a band of superheros in surprisingly detailed costumes walked up to the steps of the nearby building for a photo shoot. San nearly jizzed his pants as he captured the posed scenes with my little Nikon point-and-shoot. I laughed to myself as Supergirl and Wonderwoman discussed the visible bruises on Supergirl's legs, which were a result of a carseat incident. Supergirl was either a mom of several small children, or a preschool teacher. Even though tempted, I resisted the urge to crack the window to escape the ever-increasing level of geek. I'm not one to admit defeat within the first fifteen minutes.
We walked around the festival, and I marvelled (haha...I'm so punny) at the elaborate costumes and the amount of pasty-pale skin that normally would never be shown to the world. There was an uncomfortable amount of ass-cheek hanging out of bathing suit bottoms in a very unattractive manner, and a few beer bellies that weren't accustomed to being stifled by spandex one-sies and drawn in by utility belts.
Lunch consisted of soggy hot wings at a local bar with a funny but not particularly memorable name. It stayed in my good favor because it protected us from the sun and had air conditioning.
After lunch we sat through a Q&A with the woman who wrote the comic Birds of Prey for several years. Rumor is that Wonderwoman is involved in this particular comic. The questions weren't very interesting, and the woman avoided expressing any non-sanctioned opinions. A young man sat in front of us with a melting airbrush tattoo of the Superman shield, oversized aviator glasses, and a chic haircut. I'm not sure who he was supposed to be. As a followup question to learning that the woman had begun her adult life as a hair stylist, he asked the woman - who was a writer, not an artist - how she felt the first time she drew hair in a comic. Ultra-genius geekdom at work, folks.
The next task was to procure a funnel cake, which was unfortunately very successful, and left me feeling like I drank a quarter-cup of warm oil. At this point of the day, with a belly full of ick and skin tired of being in the sun, I was reaching for the switch to roll down the window and ditch. I finally got San to agree to a break, so we headed back to my parents' house for dinner.
After dinner we picked up my aunt to return to see Superman and the Mole-Men. Ah, 1950's era film, made in a time before CGI became more common than fake breasts. This part of the day was actually enjoyable - the film wasn't too long, and it had a nice moral to the story. The festival organizers fed us cupcakes and lemonade (awww!) before showing some fan films. Nine films were screened, each less than ten minutes in length. Four of those films were by a fellow from St. Louis, who was apparently getting jiggy with one of the emcees. Probably the puppeteer, who had his arm inside a donkey for the last two hours of the evening and thought himself funny. Despite his prolific second career as a director, the St. Louis fellow didn't win a prize. Just an honorable mention for being a good sport. And for forcing his family to be volunteer actors in his filmography.
As we left, costumed superheros wandered into the building for the ultimate Geek-Out: an evening Dance Party. We took some pictures of San molesting the Superman statue, and then fled. Geek-Out over, Superman won.
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