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This has been edited/redacted/sanitized because I’m not really trying to put anybody else’s personal business on display. So, you know, first name basis, baby, whattup. What happens in San Diego stays in San Diego, etc etc etc. So enjoy this disjointed, screwed up, stream of consciousness record of what went down last week at San Diego Comic-con.

Tuesday night: Laura IMs me and lets me know we don’t have a hotel room for Wednesday night. That’s a problem because we’re both arriving Wednesday morning. She says she’s gonna handle it, make some calls, ask on Twitter, etc etc, so I’m not too concerned. Things have a habit of working out the way they need to, anyway. I email Graeme and Lauren and see if they have space. Graeme didn’t, because he was staying with his boss and his boss’s boss, and Lauren probably did, but by the time she saw my email, it was too late, because—

Wednesday morning: I touch down in San Diego and Laura texts me to let me know that someone offered up a room, so I email Lauren and Graeme like “never mind.” I needed to go to the San Diego Marriott & Marina and check in. I do just that and drop off my suitcase.

Wednesday noon: I go watch Graeme and Jeff eat lunch and catch up. I email someone during the lunch like “hey, I’m in town!” and they go “Let’s get drinks! When is good for you, today or tomorrow?” I say whenever and where I’m staying, and they’re like “All right, drinks at 3pm at your hotel!”

Wednesday at 3: I go to get drinks… at the wrong bar in the right hotel. Ten minutes later, I’m shaking hands and we’re grabbing a table at the bar. We shoot the breeze. Laura shows up about half an hour in and joins us for drinks. We proceed to chill at the bar for a while.

Wednesday around 730: We all kind of amble out of the bar.

Wednesday at some point after that: I get back to the hotel room and check my bank account for some reason. And holy crap, the hotel charged the entire week’s stay to my debit card, completely annihilating my bank account, and leaving me with just the money in my pocket for the entire week. That money was 100 bucks in SF before the flight, less after a shuttle to the hotel, less after the one round of drinks I bought, and comes up to a little over 65 bucks. There are four days of the convention left. I go to bed.

Thursday morning: Laura puts the hotel charge on her card and the hotel says they can’t do nothing for me. I call my bank, they tell me three business days before I get my money back. Ha ha ha.

Thursday morning after talking to my bank: I take a walk.

Thursday morning after the walk: Money status: 65 bucks after getting two pieces of pizza for breakfast. Brain status: budgeting on the fly. I know I need 20 bucks to get home from SFO and at least 12 to get back to the San Diego airport on Sunday. I have wiggle room of around… call it thirty bucks at the most.

Thursday after watching Graeme/Jeff/Matt/Sarah get lunch: I’m already mentally drained, I end up telling Graeme what the deal is and he reacts with horror, and then I find a ten dollar bill on the ground. I take it without even thinking about asking whose it is, because now it is mine.

Thursday afternoon: I cover some panels, publish the posts, retreat to the other hotel. A manga blogger I know is throwing a karaoke meetup with other bloggers and pros, so I go to that with that ten bucks I found and have a good time. I meet a publisher I’ve been meaning to meet and a few other people. A few people I know come through. I spend my ten and a little more besides. I duet a bunch of songs… Losing My Religion, Fortunate Son (my choice), Creep by TLC, and Chamillionaire’s Ridin. A few others, and we sing all over a pro karaoke dude’s version of Prince’s Purple Rain.

Friday morning: I roll out of bed too late for breakfast and too early to not be hung over. I hit the panels hard and post like six times? Something like that.

Friday evening: retreat to the hotel, read part of a book, then go to the Eisners to see about co-winning an award for best comics journalism. A guy who was nominated in our category and is the only person I would have been okay with losing to is seated at our table for some reason. He tells us that he thinks we’re gonna win. We’re like “Thanks!” He retreats to another table in case we win so it won’t be awkward. He wins. I am a little less okay with it than I expected to be, because the week had been so terrible that I really wanted something big to happen. C’est la guerre. I go back to the hotel room after leaving the awards early and read books and go to sleep.

Saturday morning: lighter day than Friday. I hit up The Black Panel, laugh a little. I bounce, cover a few panels, hang out with Wolkin some more, meet up with Graeme at some point, and leave the con around 3 or 4. I hit the hotel room and go to sleep again. Around 730, Graeme tells me to come to Laura’s hotel room so we can go to dinner. My hotel is on the south side of the con. Hers is on the north. The con is huge. I walk.

Saturday evening: I get dinner with Graeme, Laura, Wolkin, and a few other people. Fun times, and then everyone but Graeme and me bounce to a party. Graeme and I go in search of cupcakes.

Saturday after that: We find cupcakes. They only have Banana and Peanut butter cupcakes left. Gross. We leave. Graeme goes to his hotel, I go to mine. Books and bed awaits.

Various times throughout the week: Between panels, I go out on the deck of the con overlooking the water and in the sun and read. Overzealous security guards eye me suspiciously. I try to will them to death with my mind. It doesn’t work.

Sunday morning: I wake up, say a prayer, and check my bank account. I have money! And I’m leaving in a few hours… and everything I wanted is sold out. Win some, lose some. Or something.

Sunday noon: I go say bye to some cool PR people I met, who are in adjacent booths. They load me up with comped books, including a few I’d been curious about and wanting for a while. I want to die slightly less than I did 12 hours before.

Sunday around 2: Graeme and I get in a taxi to go to the airport, which then almost gets into a wreck. Graeme barely makes his plane and I’m there around an hour early. I eat bad airport pizza and try to decompress.

Sunday, on the plane: I read the last chapter of Vagabond Vizbig 8, which is genuinely probably the best comic book I’ve read all year. It completely did my head in and I instantly wish I’d had Vizbig 9 with me (it comes out in October).

Sunday, in SF: I go home and realize that I cannot type, since I’d been typing on a netbook, which has a half size keyboard, all weekend. It takes work to get back used to the full-size MacBook. I am wiped.

Monday: work at 0900! Only I left my bike at work, so i have to catch a bus, so I get to work at 0930!

I think that’s everything? I may have left out a few details, but this has been by far the worst and in some ways the best convention I’ve ever been to. In the final analysis… I’d say it’s 50/50 good/bad, and 100% surreal. I met a lot of cool people I’d been meaning to meet, didn’t buy anything I’d wanted to (and I’d also left my sketchbook at home, so I couldn’t even have started a Pretty Girls Sketchbook if I’d had the money), but ended up breaking even, maybe? I dunno. The money thing really, really sucked, but the parts of the con that didn’t suck were really very cool.

Life is really, really weird, though, and I need to score a big win at some point over the next seven days to make up for last week.