Day Three - 300,000 plus

The first person I spoke to at the Expo on Saturday, informed me that there was an estimated 300,000 people attending the Comic Expo on that Saturday alone.  That's roughly the entire population of Saskatoon, crammed into the small Calgary Stampede site.  It's no wonder that parking on the grounds was filled before the venue even opened for the day.

Our trek to the convention was without much drama.  We'd traveled the nearly straight line for a couple of days, so my co-pilot didn't need to consult her GPS, which I believe was conspiring against us in the days previous, often feeding us wrong turns 'n' such.  On this day, Saturday, it was already speculated that the influx of people would be incredible, but I never expected that traffic would be lined up as far back as it was.  Blocks upon blocks!

When the Stampede site was within visual distance, is when the stupid f*cking drivers started trying to dart in ahead of me.  I may not be the best driver at times, I still stand by my proclamation that I am better than most drivers.  There was a train track that dissected the street leading to the entrance.  Having seen the transit trolley pass frequently in passing days, I chose not to park my vehicle on the tracks.  It's the safe thing to do, after all.  There is very little that I take pride in more than my truck and having it smashed by a train would not make my day (or life) very enjoyable.  However, this dumb bitch, yes I know I shouldn't use the term, but it's deserving, bypasses all who have been patiently waiting behind my rear bumper, and darts into the space between me and the car in front of us, parking her lazy ass on those tracks.  Oh how I reveled at the idea that a train come and smash the f*ck out of her little SUV.  We'd be late for the Expo, sure, but what a memory to take home with us.

Unfortunately, no train.  The traffic pulled ahead, but not by much.  Enough that I could pull ahead, clearing the train tracks.  The dumb f*ck behind me, failed to practice the same safety as I, and pulled up right behind me, blocking the tracks.  Why do I mention this?  Why, the lights began to flash and bells sounded, indicating the train was fast approaching.  Suddenly, asshole starts hammering on his horn for me to move ahead, but I couldn't move ahead.  It wasn't my fault his parents raised a stupid child.  Sadly, the light changed to green, allowing us to move forward and dumb shit's life to be spared.  Yet, I'm the bad guy?

Long story short, parking was filled and we were instructed to try the north end of the complex.  Ultimately, we found alternate parking and for a cheaper price.  It was a little further to walk, but it was a nice day, so I didn't mind, although one of my companions was dressed in a great big gown as a "punk version" of Beauty & The Beast's Belle.  I can't imagine walking all that distance, hiking up the gown, was all that much fun.  Just one of the perks of being a guy, I guess.

Me and the kid with the stupid bird hat attended a Q&A with some of the "deceased" stars of The Walking Dead, which was okay, but the questions people asked these guys was borderline retarded.  I can attest to the fact that nervousness can be overwhelming.  I experienced some of that the day before in meeting Mick Foley.  At one point, I almost broke into tears, but I don't think I said anything overly stupid.  I made a couple jokes, which Mick was quick to respond to, in classic comic fashion.

After the Q&A, we met up with our friends and soon parted ways again.  It was around this time that I spoke with a couple folks running booths in the pavilion, one fella who worked with leather making masks and helmets.  He was quite interesting to speak with.  A part of these shows that I do enjoy.

I will never be one of those kind of people who will dress up for one of these conventions.  Not unless I was extremely passionate about something, but the only thing I like that much, aside from my cat, is wrestling, but I don't have the body or commitment to pull of a look so bold.  On the other hand, I do appreciate some of the effort put into other costumes.  I saw a guy dressed as Starlord from the Guardians of the Galaxy.  I wanted so much to go up to him and ask:

          Me: Who are you supposed to be?
          Him: Starlord.
          Me: Who?
          Him: Starlord!  Awe, come on, man!

It would have been classic, just like it happened in the movie, but I doubt these nerdy f*cks would have the audacity to recognize the scenario.  Hell, I ran into a giant of a man dressed as Groot and when I requested a photograph, he nodded, instead of muttering the words, "I am Groot."  Three simple words, but no.  Some days I wish I could walk around and only mutter three words.  Life would be so much more simple.

The guy pictured above was an incredible Batman, in my opinion.  He was more than happy to pose for a picture, giving me not just one stance, but a couple.

I grabbed a couple T-shirts that day, but it was SO god damned crowded, I kept getting knocked about and I was growing more and more upset with each blow.  It was at this time that I was informed by how many people were on the grounds.  "Three hundred thousand." I was told, which I thought was an exaggeration, but given the crowds inside were literally elbow-to-elbow, and outside wasn't much better, I'd estimate that the figure was pretty dead on.  I was so relieved that I'd got to meet Mick Foley the day before.  I never ventured into that hall, but I can only imagine the crowd waiting to meet him was staggering.

After only a couple of hours, we decided we had enough and departed.  Walking back to the truck, it felt like an incredible weight had been lifted off.  I actually felt stress falling away from my body, like smoke and embers floating away from a campfire.  On the way back to the hotel, we stopped for ice cream beverages.  I had a chocolate shake, while my passengers indulged in rootbeer floats, and all was well with the world.  That night, we went for supper at my friend's sister's house, where I met for the first time, friendly Calgary people.  I could hardly believe the contrast between how pleasant and welcoming they were to how stubborn, rude and ignorant the rest of Calgary seemed to be.  Oddly, though, what I found most memorable about the visit, was their cat.  This spry little cat came up to me a few times, looking for attention, which I was more than happy to give, being that I missed my cat.  He was small and energetic and to my surprise, SEVENTEEN years old.  I was floored.  I couldn't believe this cat was seventeen.  What was most memorable, for me, was the actions that the cat did next.

Everyone was distracted by the hockey playoffs on the television, but I don't really give two shits about hockey (an odd thing for a Canadian boy to admit, but nonetheless true), so my attention was on the cat and trying to coax him back so I could pet him some more.  Instead, the cat chose to bathe himself.

Now allow me to paint the picture.  I was seated on a small sofa, with my friend M_____, her boyfriend, D____ was on the stairs next to her, and the rest of the family was spread around the outer wall to his left, all looking at the action on the television set.  My eyes are on the cat, whose leg is propped back behind his head and he's washing his "manhood".  Suddenly, I noticed a little reddish-pink nub growing.  It's growing and it's growing and it's pulsing and it's growing.  I'm not staring at it, but at the cat's eyes who has stopped licking and his stare is fixed on my friend M_____ seated to my left.  His nub is in my peripheral, my eyes locked on his, his fixed on M_____.  It was like a beastly show 'n' tell.  He never got her attention and frustrated, he kicked his leg down and left the room.  Probably to go rub one out, but that's purely speculation on my part.

We stopped for an (expensive) ice cream cone at Dairy Queen before retiring to our hotel.  At some point that evening, we'd all agreed that we had enough of the Calgary Comic Expo and removed the wristband that allowed us entrance to the festival.  Day Four we would come home instead of dealing with the masses of nerds and freaks.

Day Four began with our packing shit up, (and my forgetting shit behind).  Then we went to a thrift shop and McDonald's then one more stop along the way.  A massive mall outside Calgary, near the town of Airdrie.  It seemed nice.  It had everything you can imagine.  Even a bear.  I don't ever plan on (realistically) moving, unless something truly extraordinary happens to me, but if I did, Airdrie, might be a nice destination.  It seems like it has every amenity I would require to be a recluse.  But I'm happy where I am, for now.  No plans on moving.  Plus, I don't think I could be the asshole behind the wheel that seems to be required to live in Alberta, anyway.

I have to admit, though, the best part of Calgary was my pretending I didn't know who or what the Calgary Flames were.  Calgarians would mentions something about the Flames, who were in the playoffs at the time, and I would play dumb and bewildered by what they might be.  "Are they some sort of sporting team?"  I would ask and watching the blood drain away from their faces was priceless.  At the Expo, there was a lady selling license plates with the Flames logo on it.  I asked what the Flaming C was all about, adding that I'd seen it in a number of places, but had no idea what it stood for.  "The Calgary Flames", she told me proudly, to which I responded that I'd never heard of them.  Among all the A-holes I'd encountered during my brief stay in Calgary, these few folks were the least dickish, probably thinking I was retarded for never having heard of the Calgary Flames.  Whatever.  I get my fun from where I can find it.

Tarantino Stole My Dream

I am not an actor.  Not by any means.  I aspired to be one, as a young child, like many kids do.  However, when my parents told me I would never be good enough, I had to accept that reality.  After all, they were grown ups and I was just a little kid.  I figured, they knew what they were talking about.

After so many years, this reality must have crept into my subconscious, as this morning I had the strangest of dreams.  Not to say that I never have strange dreams, because over the years, I have had some doozies.  For instance, as a child I do recall being scooped up and eaten by King Kong.  Odd for a herbivore to devour a human being, especially one as piddly as I was.  I remember not being chewed, but popped like a pill and the journey down to his stomach was lengthy enough that I could look all around me and process the scene of which I was passing, rather quickly, by.  Bananas.  Tons and tons of bananas, lined his throat.  Pretty f*ckin' strange, huh?

Hence the reality that the dream I awoke to this morning being of equal strangeness.  Although I wasn't consumed by an over-sized movie monster, it was bizarre all the same.  I dreamed that I was on the set of a Quentin Tarantino movie.  I was standing in a line with actor Eli Roth and a red-headed actress whom I did not recognize.  We each had a special weapon in our possession, used more for slicing than cutting.  I recall that my fellow companions regaled at the uniqueness of my blade.  We were going over our lines for the scene that we were about to film.  Standing back, the two actors ahead of me were trading off lines, back and forth, like the true professionals that they were.  Although I was in the very same scene, I realized that I didn't know a single line.  "I'm not an actor!" I thought to myself, "How did I get into this situation?"  Never the less, I joined in the rehearsal, adlibbing my lines as they progressed, them pausing to look at me, momentarily, before giving me words of encouragement.  Apparently, I was there to be comedic affect.  I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

There was already talk that this was going to be an Oscar-worthy motion picture, and though I knew I'd never be nominated for such a prestigious award, it was refreshing to know that I was going to be a part of something so grand.  Quentin finally appeared before us, just as a row of train cars rolled up.  It was gleaming in the morning sun.  Jet black with a thick bright gold stripe running lengthwise from it's nose all the way to it's fourth and rear car.

Quentin engaged in some idle chit-chat with my co-stars before turning to me.  "Ah, Jeff.  Glad you made it." he said, as though we were kindred spirits separated by time, "Follow me, I have a special job for you to do."  He lifted a velvet rope that I hadn't seen up to this point.  I ducked under it and followed the famed director off towards the train.

"The train that you see here, contains all of the recording devices that we're using for this movie." he explained to me, brandishing his arm in such a grandioso manner. "However, we haven't anyone who is able to operate this train."  Quentin paused for a moment, then turned to look at me.  "That's where you come in.  I need you to run this train for me.  Ensure that it's onset at all times.  Can you do this for me, Jeff?  This is a very important job.  I need you to do this."

Preposterous as it sounds, I heard these words escape my lips, "But Quentin!  I'm an actor!"

I know, right?  Growing up my parents never believed I'd ever be good enough for such a profession, so why would I think I was now?  Never the less, I said it.  Spoken words of desperation to one of Hollywood's finest movie generals.  Even though minutes before, I was questioning why I was on board for a motion picture of this caliber, I was now confident enough that I could pull off the role for which I was hired to play.

Placing his arm on my shoulders, Quentin was a little hesitant to inform me that he and the producers had decided to cut my part from the movie.  I would still be paid the agreed upon salary that was declared in my contract, however they still needed me to work for my paycheck.  Given my "history" of driving a forklift, it was a given that I'd be qualified to operate this specialized train.  I failed to see then, and even now in my conscious state, what the hell one has to do with the other, but I hung my head in defeat and soon found myself sadly looking down from the cockpit of the train, at the world that could've been.